Those Left Behind
by EvadneNyx
Summary: Isolde, who has been a victim of prejudice and hostility all her life, finds herself caught in the midst of a dangerous conspiracy. She must help Arthur and the knights stop the murders whilst trying to build a new life in unfamiliar territory. Tristan/OC
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I do not own King Arthur nor the characters from the movie.  
This is my first story and I am well aware that my writing style is far from perfect and I am going through an experimental stage, so I will appreciate any constructive criticism or comments you have to make.  
The story will be a Tristan romance but that will not happen for quite a while to make the story a bit more realistic and it will start before the movie.  
This chapter is only a rather lengthy introduction to the proper story and subsequent chapters will hopefully be more interesting. Enjoy!

* * *

**One**

**Child of Ireland & Britain**

My story begins a year or so before my birth in Ireland, a fair and green land left untouched and unsullied by the Romans. The Irish people's lives were governed by their province's king and the throne was the cause of much rivalry between the various aristocracies.

A young man named Dáire was the nephew of King Ailill of Laigin in the south-east of Ireland and, although he held no potent desires to inherit the throne, he was popular and admired amongst the tribes of the region for his strength and skill with arms. This popularity worried Dáire's uncle, who was growing older and feared that his position grew ever more insecure whilst his nephew remained in Laigin.

When Dáire reached his twentieth summer, King Ailill abruptly summoned him to the communal hut late one evening, where the men held their counsels in times of trouble and need.  
It was a large, sturdy edifice, magnificent in comparison with the family homes scattered around it. A blazing fire burned in the middle of the hut to keep away the chill from the brisk winds that danced through the settlement. The King himself sat close to the flames, staring pensively into their depths before his nephew arrived and startled him from his reverie with a respectful greeting.

"Dáire, you are the closest thing I have to a son. You are a loyal man and true of heart. Therefore I have chosen you to lead an expedition to Britain in my stead," the King told him evenly, observing the young man's reaction through hooded eyes – a respectful nod and attentive demeanour.

"What is to be the manner of this expedition, sire?" Inquired Dáire quietly, after his uncle failed to expand on his initial command.

"One of peace, I think, since raids fail to provide enough for any length of time. I hope to start a trade route with some Britons in the north as our neighbours in Ireland do not wish to do business with us," Ailill spat bitterly. "I know the Irish have had few peaceful dealings with the Britons and Romans, but I believe it could be done if you can find a willing settlement. We have much to offer them and in return, they can give us metal, food and imports from the empire."

However, Dáire shook his head, revealing his more forceful inner nature. "The Romans will never stand for any Irish in their lands, not even if their mission is only commerce. It will _never_ work, my lord. The Romans have dominion over most of the island and the picts to the far north are no friends of ours either."

The old king raised his eyebrows and turned to face the young man. "You are unwilling?" He laughed hollowly, the sound resounding unpleasantly around the hut. "Never did I imagine the day that even faithful and courageous Dáire would cease to do my bidding. Times are changing, I do not know if the people of Laigin will last this year with this bad harvest and worse weather. The crops are failing and the animals are scrawny beasts with hardly any flesh on their bones. I need to act soon or I will let my people down," he explained fiercely, gesturing wildly with his hands. Dáire clenched his jaw, knowing his uncle spoke the truth but still frustrated at the folly of the proposal. After several minutes of tense silence, the young man rose, his mind decided.

"I will do as you ask. I shall leave later this month." And with a stiff bow, he was gone.

True to his word, Dáire left Ireland's shores later that month in a small ship crewed by the finest sailors in Laigin. Its hold was heavily stocked with provisions for the journey and offerings to trade with the Britons, but Dáire had ordered that the minimal amount of weapons be taken on the expedition, so as not to present the wrong idea to the Roman garrisons stationed along the British coastline.  
The winds were unfavourable and Dáire's crew were prepared for a rough crossing, when the king had declared that trading voyage could not be postponed any longer to much discontented murmurrings amongst his people.

It took four arduous days to make the unusual crossing to Britain but on the fourth morning the men cheered and sang merrily when land came in sight of the ship. Their leader on the other hand felt a growing anxiety at the sight of these foreign shores but concealed his foreboding under a bright smile and light manner.  
Once their ship was safely moored, Dáire and his crew set off inland carrying their cargo and food for the expedition.

After two days of their trek, the Irish men reached an imposing Roman fortress situated on Hadrian's Wall. They could hear the just audible sounds of busy daily life permeating the strong stone walls.  
"This place seems as good as any for us to propose friendship and peaceful trade. What do you say, Dáire?" Asked a spirited fisherman and old companion of the king's nephew.  
"I agree," he replied dryly. "I'll go and see the governor of the fort with two of the men. You, on the other hand, are now in charge of keeping the rest of the men in order." Dáire glanced at the rowdy bunch of his fellow Laigins and smiled truly for the first time in days. "Good luck."

The fort's governor turned out to be a reformed British prince, called Gwrytheyrn, now loyal servant of Rome. He was a courteous but extremely sharp man and bombarded Dáire with a myriad of questions regarding his motives, his family and his goods. He was part way through examining the king's goods when a young, slender woman entered the room with a pitcher of wine.  
"Ah, thank you, Andraste! Dáire, this is my wonderful cousin," Gwrytheyrn announced fondly. The woman smiled somewhat hesitantly at the stranger, but greeted him cordially. "Have some wine, but then I must ask for some time to consider your... rather unusual scheme. You and your men may stay in accomodation here in the fort."

In all, it took over a week for Dáire to hear news of the governor's response, but in that time he explored the thriving community, finding it strange and the people mostly hostile. However he developed a strong bond with Andraste, whom he found to be an intelligent woman with a quiet, watchful manner.  
After Gwrytheyrn had finally declined King Aillil's suggested trade route, Dáire thanked him for his hospitality but said he had one more thing to ask of the governor.  
"Sir, during my brief stay in your town I have come to...admire your cousin and I request your blessing to take her back to Irelnd with me to wed. She says she is willing if only you would agree." Andraste's cousin turned slowly towards her.

"You wish to leave with him?" He asked with a touch of incredulity. She nodded, keeping her eyes fixed on the ground. "Dáire, I am not a unjust man. I can see that you are not one of the brutal Irish raiders that we have to deal with sometimes, but Andraste is a woman used to the luxuries provided by the Roman empire's rule..."

"I am willing to relinquish this lifestyle, cousin," Andraste told him firmly. Gwrytheyrn sighed deeply.

"Very well," he said resignedly. "There is nothing else I can do. You have my blessing and please send my negetive reply back to King Aillil, but as a wedding gift, I shall give you six of my farm's finest cows and ten young sheep. Shall that suffice?" Dáire thanked the man profusely both for the blessing to wed Andraste and also for the generous gift that could help Aillil's people.

The Irish party left the fortress only a day after, much to the citizens relief and set off back to their ship as Dáire had ordered that if a man so generous as that governor would not agree to trading links, then no other would. The men were distant in their behaviour towards Andraste because they still held an element of mistrust for Britons and their stay in the fort had altered none of their opinions.

The weather was more favourable on the crossing back to Ireland and the men worked with vigour for three days to reach their home shores. Once they returned to their struggling community with Andraste, Dáire was greeted with resentment and his bethrothed with aggression. Their failure to establish a trading connection with Britain was met with scorn almost equal to that which the people greeted their former hero's betrothed and her important dowry. Dáire was puzzled by this animosity and immediately went to his uncle's house to seek answers and guidance.  
When he entered the hut, he found only Aodh, an ambitious rival to the throne of the province, lounging on a chair.

"Where is the king?" he demanded harshly, although he feared he already knew the answer. Aodh smirked slightly and stood up.

"Here is your king. I see you have only brought back a handful of cows and some sheep. Oh, yes and a _Briton woman_," Aodh sneered mockingly. "I'm none too pleased with you, Dáire, as you have been very insolent to me and no doubt consider challenging my claim even now. But I remind you of your delicate position within the clan and it would be wise to reconsider if you value the life of the Briton you have returned with. Now, do I have your alleigance?"

And so Dáire was forced to accept the rule of Aodh and try to live a quiet life with his new pariah wife, Andraste. She was mistrusted and ignored by the villagers despite her concerted efforts to fit in with the women of the clan. She learnt the valuable skill of healing from Dáire's mother so as to be of use to the men and women of Laigin, but it was all in vain.

I was born to Dáire and Andraste eleven months after their unpopular union by the Irish coast. My time in Ireland was to be short, and plagued with ill fortune and malicious actions of its people. Nevertheless, I am a child of both Ireland and Britain and this is my story.


	2. Chapter 2

_Very_ sorry about the long wait. I've been a bit busier than I expected, but despite the delay I hope you will enjoy this chapter.  
This chapter is not totally to my satisfaction but it hasnow been partially edited. Comments and reviews will be most appreciated to help me improve the story and stop the character from becoming MS. Feedback on the length of the chapters would also be particularly welcome: longer, shorter or about right?  
Thanks to **interfan** for the review!

**Disclaimer: **I do not own King Arthur or its characters. This is for entertainment purposes only.

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**Two**

**A Foolish Decision**

It was a beautiful day. The sun shone brilliantly over the landscape, spreading a warmth that starkly contrasted with the country's typical weather. Young children shouted and engaged in rough games, men and women went about their business or gossipped in the market place of the Roman fort. Yet I sat at my window, watching and thinking.

In previous years, I would have considered wandering through the vast market, examining items on the traders' stalls and braving the looks of distaste from the citizens of the fort, but now it was too dangerous to venture far from my uncle's home. Recently, several people of importance within the large community had been murdered using unpleasant methods and objects of considerable value taken from them. A gang of brazen thieves was thought to be to blame for the atrocities, but despite the handful of arrests made by the Roman garrison, the slaughter of rich Romans and Britons alike did not cease.

Although I was not the owner of expansive estates and successful businesses, my uncle, who used to dote upon me, had given me numerous gifts of ornate gold jewellery which would no doubt tempt even the wariest of thieves. Certainly no killer from Britain would have serious qualms about disposing of an Irish-British mongrel such as myself for a handsome profit. I was not about to offer them that chance.

Soon I grew bored of observing the conventional activities going on outside the walls of my room and my restless nature prompted me to seek out something to once again occupy my mind. I rose quickly, smoothing the creases from my finely-woven dress and left the room. I walked softly down the hallway, humming under my breath and not paying much attention to the familiar murals of famous scenes and intricately detailed mosaics around me. My aimless wanderings took me to my uncle's study, which I knew he currently occupied with his business guests. I always did my best to avoid visitors to the house due to my shy and reticent personality which caused me to act awkwardly in refined company. My uncle seemed to appreciate my absence when he held his famously lavish banquets for I was not viewed favourably by his acquaintances or youths my own age and I had never made an effort to alter their harsh opinions of me.

A mixture of curiosity and boredom compelled me to listen in at the meeting as I heard a forceful voice raised in anger that could only belong to my uncle. What, I wondered, could make him so angry as to snap at a guest? He was usually so composed and courteous that it even put some of the Roman nobles to shame. I knew eavesdropping was wrong and I did not usually pry into other's business, but this time the temptation was too great to pass up. Glancing around to check that the hall was empty, I crossed over to the impressive oak door and cautiously rested my ear against the smooth wood to listen, smoothing my thick brown hair out of the way. It took a couple of seconds to focus upon the muffled voices faintly penetrating the door, but then I heard a man talking. From his clipped tone and careful articulation, it was evident that he was quite angry and I assumed he was the man with whom my uncle was perhaps arguing. At first the words did not make sense and were slurred together as if he were drunk, but as my ears grew accustomed to the barrier between the speaker and myself, I could understand his words in their new clarity.

"I don't really think this is wise. He is very popular and he has always claimed to be related to someone high up in the Church or even well thought of by the Pope. I am inclined to believe him, if only from the luxuries the Emperor has liberally bestowed on him here in Britain. I think it would be a grave mistake to show him...this malice that you have spoken of," I frowned slightly, the man's vague clues hinted at one or two men living in or on sprawling estates just outside our fort, but I could not be certain exactly when hampered by my somewhat phantom social life.

"I must disagree. If this is conducted in the right way, it could prevent him being appointed Governor at the end of the year when my term in office finishes. Then, there would be no other sensible choice but to renew my appointment," my uncle replied seriously, the irritation in his voice mellowing. "Besides, he is in danger from these dangerous, thieving rouges that have been plaguing the fort, and with his wealth and high-standing in Roman society, it will only do him good if we relieve him a little of some of his heavy burdens." I was now utterly lost by their cryptic strand of conversation, and although I was intrigued by their mention of the man's vulnerability to the villains, I now found their exchange uninteresting.

However, as I silently drew away from my uncomfortable position against the study door, I recognised with a jolt a voice that had previously not partaken in the argument. I hesistated guiltily - if he knew I was doing this, it would be his, rather than my uncle's reprimand that would trouble me most. '  
Only a minute,' I promised myself, filled with a sudden rush of defiance in the face of the Roman propriety I had been raised with for part of my life.

"...utmost care. This is an _immense_ risk to be taking, Gwrytheyrn and I am not sure action is necessary in this case," recommended the magistrate and the governor's primary advisor emphatically. His name was Gaius Hadrianus Marcellus and he had been a prominent and venerated figure of my childhood. "You have heard both our views now. What is your decision?" There was a pause and I heard the distinctive screech of chair legs moving against a stone floor.

"I will go ahead and act as I have planned," my uncle announced solemnly. "Thank you for your counsel, gentlemen, it is definitely not unappreciated. I expect you have duties to attend to now." Recognising the curt dismissal, I sprang away from the door in alarm and, hitching the cumbersome blue skirts of my dress, set off at a run down the hall with my heart frantically beating against my chest. I did not look back.

I rounded the corner into the library, just as the group of distinguished men emerged from my uncle's study and I hurriedly and rather roughly pulled a slim book at random from the shelf nearest the door. I sat tensely on a chair and forced myself to focus upon my uncle's book in an effort to calm my nerves.

"_The Life and Character of Julius Agricola_?" I muttered in dismay, pulling a face. I certainly would not waste my time reading a rather dull biography even if it was just for the pretense of innocence. Sighing, I rose and headed over to the void left by the biography with the intention to replace it and find a better read. Literature was one of my few passions and I had decided to devote the rest of the morning to it. I knew that my absorption in a fascinating history or philosphy book would effectively banish my nervousness and guilty conscience after my shameful eavesdropping.

I tried to force the volume back into its rightful place, but found to to my annoyance that an avalanche of its neighbours had blocked the way. Cursing irritably, I wrestled with the heavy books, but in my awkward movements my hip contacted painfully with a small marble table bearing a prized oil lamp of my uncle's and a stack of papers and documents.

"Ow! Oh God, no!" I cried, lunging for the table which was tumbling to the floor, bearing all its importent contents with it. My reaction was a fraction too slow and wild to catch the table before it plunged into the floor with a deafening crack and an flurry of snowy papers. I froze, clutching my injured hip tightly in one hand whilst the other covered my mouth.

"Miss? Are you alright?" asked a servant girl concernedly, who arrived at the threshold of the library shortly after the accident. She started towards the mess at my feet, but, recovered from my shock, I waved her away, unwilling to cause a fuss that would disturb the master of the household. I did not feel quite ready to deal with that at the moment.

"I'm fine, Brenna. You can return to whatever you were doing before, but first please send for Govannon to fix this table. Go, I'm fine," I assured her with an attempt at a smile. The good-natured Brenna bustled off and I was left to rectify the muddle of my uncle's notes and the shards of expensive lamp. I did my best to ignore the ache in my hip and I knelt down to carefully collect the fragments of the lamp. Even though I lacked expertise in craft, I could see that it would prove impossible to repair due to the extent of the damage and I wondered how on earth I would break the news to my uncle. I reverently laid them in a neat pile and began to pick up the sheets of paper. There were lists, drafts, plans and what appeared to be detailed notes on various people. Perhaps they were criminals or men hoping to serve in the town. I glanced only briefly at them before placing them tidily on the pile. Next I picked up an unmarked envelope, still open and not yet bearing my uncle's wax lion seal. I opened it to check that the contents had not fallen out but saw that there was several sheets of writing in the Greek alphabet. I had mastered the basics of Greek when I was fourteen, taught upon a whim by Hadrianus when he was still an old veteran of the Roman army. Although I could think of no one to whom my uncle would correspond with in Greek, I did not pry any further and was just about to replace it on the thick stack of papers, when the door burst open and in strode my uncle - the man who I least wanted to see at that very moment.

"What have you done, Isolde?" he snapped, gesturing to the fractured marble table and his belongings on the floor. He wrenched the Greek letter from my grasp and briefly pulled out the four sheets of paper enclosed. After he had read a few lines, he directed his gaze to me, eyes narrowed and dangerously softly he demanded, "Why were you reading this? How much did you see?"

Frightened by the intensity of his rage, I stuttered and stumbled foolishly over my reply. "N-Nothing. I did not r-read any of it, uncle." He snorted derisively and tossed the envelope onto the stack of his papers.

"And why should I take _your_ word for it? I took you and your mother into _my _home and let you live in my home and you repay me with snooping through my private letters and _then_ Vilbia also tells me that she saw you with your ear pressed against the door of my study, listening and prying into my business," he snarled. I was visibly trembling with fear now and on the verge of tears, but he was not the sort of man to be moved by tears and distress.

"I'm sorry!" I cried sincerely. "I know I shouldn't have, but I swear to god, I never read that letter. I only wanted to clear-"

"Just go, Isolde! I don't want to see you again today. Go to your room," my uncle ordered, his voice resounding with authority and fury. I fled from the library and did not stop running until I entered my chambers. With a curious noise, half way between a groan and a sob, I sat down on my bed with the head cradled in my shaking hands. I felt utterly wretched and only wished that I had stayed in my room, instead of looking for trouble around the house. The events kept on repeating themself in my head, gradually getting worse each time and taking on elements of a nightmare.

Uncle was of course justified in his anger; in my boredom, I had basely resorted to eavesdropping, and then when he had discovered me kneeling in the midst of the scattered and broken possessions, holding a private letter, he quite naturally assumed from my earlier despicable behaviour that I had once again been prying. It was not as if I had done nothing to deserve his accusations.

Unsurprisingly, my reasoning did nothing to improve my mood. It was a truly awful day.


	3. Chapter 3

This chapter's long because quite a lot of things will happen in this chapter to develop the plot and then the knights will _finally_ be introduced in the next chapter, I promise. I know that is what pretty much everyone will want and then they will take their place as a main feature of the story. This chapter may have been better suited divided into two or even more chapters but I wanted to move on a bit further.  
Apologies for the long wait for this chapter. Updates may be irregular or slow.  
This chapter may seem rushed in places but it was intended to be sparse at times. Please review and give your honest opinion on the story so far. Thanks and enjoy!

**Disclaimer**: I do not own the charcter of the King Arthur film. This is purely for entertainment purposes.

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**Three**

**Guilt and Redemption**

I was abruptly roused in the morning from my self-indulgent lie-in by an urgent hammering at my chamber door. I sat up sharply, blinking against the harsh sunlight, and rubbed my eyes wearily.

"Yes? What is it?" I called, mildly irritated at the interruption.

"It's Lord Gwrytheyrn , miss," Brenna replied through the door, her distinctive northern British accent unmistakeable. I froze in the middle of getting out of bed, my stomach twisting in nervousness and anticipation. It had been two days since he had utterly lost his temper with me but I had seen nothing of him since, voluntarily confining myself to my room. "He wants to see you now in his study."

"I shall be there in a few minutes, Brenna. Do you know what he wants?" I enquired, as I started to get changed into a sombre grey dress and slipping my feet into my soft shoes. There was no time to bathe now, that would have to wait until after I had been to see uncle. I could not afford to keep him waiting and risk angering him again.

"No, miss. Shall I get you anything?" she asked kindly, but her consideration did nothing to quell my growing apprehension. I replied negetively and leant against my dressing table until I heard her footsteps depart. I made an effort to look presentable and collect myself by brushing the numerous knots out of my long dark hair and fastening a simple pendant around my throat. Then I left the room and briskly headed towards the study where my uncle awaited me, all the while thinking of all the reasons he could want to speak to me about at this time. Was he going to evict me onto the dangerous streets of the fort? It was, I had to admit, a real possibility and one that I fervently prayed would not be the case.

I arrived in the main part of the house, away from the spacious bedrooms and lavish private chambers and stopped dead to avoid a collision with two servants, who were rushing to keep up with their hectic work schedule.

"Vilbia," I said eventually, thankful that my voice was steady and impersonal. We were unsure how to act after she told my uncle about my eavesdropping two days ago. She ducked her head slightly but her movements were stiff and she kept her eyes on the nervous, bright-eyed girl next to her - an apprentice of sorts, I presumed. "Carry on, I am sure you have duties that require attending to," I instructed, mimicing my uncle unwittingly. Vilbia had been in the right and I in the wrong, I reasoned as we went our separate ways - I could not blame her at all for the mess I had been in.

Soon, I reached the door the reached the door of the study and, without waiting for my courage to diminish, I opened the door and walked straight inside. My grey eyes immediately met with the pale green of my uncle's, staring at me inscrutably from his seated position by the window. I bowed my head respectfully but turned my eyes away, regarding the attractive room with feigned interest and waited in nervous anticipation for him to speak his mind. My gaze was next instantly drawn to the Roman soldiers, who stood smartly to attention around the perimeter of the study swathed in their vibrant scarlet cloaks. They were entirely immobile and I blamed this for why I had not seen them straight away, although I was admittedly not the most observant person on the best of days. What business had they in our house? I counted six of them, one appeared to be an officer of some description and my eyes lingered on him, as if to read his mind and discover his purpose. However, he regarded me stonily and I glanced away, feeling incredibly foolish and intimidated. I had not heard many favourable stories about the Roman military stationed at our fort. They were not the sort of the people I would want to offend with childish behaviour.

"Isolde," Gwrytheyrn murmured my name in a disapproving tone. He looked tired now and older, as if worn out by the pressures of his life. I bit my lip, a nervous habit of mine and snapped to attention, a parody of the soldiers' stances. This new side to my uncle was alien to me and I had no clue of what to expect. "I shall ask you some questions, Isolde and I expect honesty in your answers this time." I remained tensely silent, agitated that he had not believed me when I told him I had not read his letter. "Where were you last night?"

I frowned, bemused by the odd question. "Why, uncle, I was in my room all day and night yesterday," I replied carefully, not wishing to affront him.

"No. I know for a fact that you were not in your chambers last night. I saw your empty bed with my very own eyes," he told me gravely. I could see he was trying to keep his temper in check from the way he clenched his bearded jaw and the slight sneer on his thin lips. I opened my mouth to protest this statement for I had gone to bed early last night and I had not roused from my position since Brenna disturbed me that morning, but my uncle swiftly interrupted me. "Last night, I sent Vilbia to your chambers. She was to summon you to the library, where I wanted to speak to you, but soon she returned, claiming your chambers were vacant. Naturally, I went to verify this myself, not quite believing it myself ... but it was true." He paused, pressing the tips of his fingers together and glanced over at me challengingly, daring me to contradict him. Maybe it was not wise of me to do so, but I could not stop myself from validly protesting my innocence.

"No! I did not leave my room at all, uncle," I cried out, incredulous at his claims. "I went to sleep early and was awoken-" I fell instantly into silence as he jerked to his feet and made for my position by the door.

"Do you have a dagger, Isolde?" He enquired dangerously, circling me predatorily. I did not like the way these accusations and questions were going at all and the last trace of my composure vanished in an instant. I unconsciously shrank away from him but answered with as much confidence I could muster under the circumstances.

"Yes, mother left it to me when she died. I keep it solely as a keepsake and for protection. Uncle," I appealed weakly. "You _know_ that I keep it in my chest of drawers. Why are you asking me this?" My uncle halted sharply and gave a flick of his hand as a signal towards the impassive Roman captain. From the inside of his cloak, the Roman withdrew a small object before walking over to us and presenting my uncle with it. However, before I could observe it properly, my uncle, in a fit of ominous temper threw it to the floor between us. I gasped violently and leapt backwards as it fell before my feet, clattering metallically. Slowly, I bent down and, with my heart hammering against my ribs, picked up a small, finely-crafted dagger. It was as I had feared, but also much worse. My hands trembled as I saw a dark substance coating the blade almost to the hilt. I felt both faint and nauseous as I recognised the knife as my own.

"Isolde..." my uncle said, sounding almost wounded. "I have fed you, clothed you and _cared_ for you, ever since your mother brought you here all those years ago and _begged_ for my sanctury and protection. This knife was found in the gutter outside Lucius Castellus' villa in the town, after his wife had stumbled upon his bloodied corpse. I shall speak bluntly: It hurts me, it truly does to discover that it is _you_ who murdered young Lucius Castellus. One who I have raised like a daughter of my own, and now you repay me with lies and the _despicable_ murder of an admired citizen of Rome." He stopped as if he could speak no more and I turned to him, horrified and strangely numb.

"Uncle...please,I had no reason...No it's not true...!" I murmered incomprehensibly, before my voice rose to a shrill shriek as a burly Roman soldier marched up and effortlessly tied my wrists together behind my back. I struggled vainly against the bonds and pleaded to my uncle who turned away seemingly unmoved.

As I was being forced towards the door by the convoy of soldiers, my uncle said, talking less harshly than before, "Your trial will be in two days time, Isolde. I am sorry, there is nothing I can do. And Quintus," The captain turned towards him expectantly. "Treat her well." And so my world collapsed around me.

* * *

I was escorted to the cold, damp prison of the fort and I no longer struggled; solely concentrated on the grim subject of my future. The penalty for killing a citizen of Rome was death and it was all that I occupied my thoughts as I stumbled into the cell that I would remain in until my trial. I lay numbly on the hard cot, staring out at the pale, sickly sky as the key was turned in the lock, cutting through the resounding, hopeless silence of the prison. Tears feel thick and fast from my eyes, wetting my cheeks and my shoulders shook with the force of my sobs. Time did not register in my mind and many hours passed by, the only sign of this being the leisurely descent of the sun. Soon after the sun had dipped beyond the horizon, my eyes closed and I fell into a fitful, restless sleep. 

Late the following morning I awoke to hear the iron door creak open and heavy footfalls enter the prison. As soon as I regained my senses, I was under no illusion that this experience was all just some terrible nightmare, and until early in the afternoon I was incapable of viewing my situation with any clarity due to my anxious thoughts. The hopeless atmosphere of the prison and the sole furnishings of the cell was a dirty, rugged cot pushed against a cool stone wall and opposite the iron bars was a slender window, permitting a criminal to view but a slice of the outside world. I shuddered to imagine the number of men who had spent their last days incarcerated in my cell.

How had my dagger ended up in the street outside a murdered man's house? Why had uncle not seen me in my chambers last night? These were but a few of the unanswerable questions that plagued me throughout the final day before my trial. I paced the small cell feverishly, my weariness disapparating gradually but it was replaced by a burning desire to be free of the claustrophobic, dank building. I wondered vaguely whether my uncle would discover the truth in time to pardon me as I would not have much hope of proving my innocence before people who despised me for my mixed blood and with my tone being hardly articulate in itself.  
Unappetising meals of thin broth or bread and icy water were thrust at me and the three other prisoners when it so suited the lazy guards, and one Roman in particlar seemed to delight in using vulgar and offensive language. I had to remind myself on several occasions that criminals were not entitled to fair or good treatment and struggled to bite back unbidden comments that sprung to the tip of my tongue when I objected to the guards' conduct. I settled on sitting on the cot, observing or pondering various questions in my mind with a dark scowl on my countenance.  
That night I laid down early with my back to the cell bars, feeling positively sick with anticipation and nervousness at the next day's prospects. I could not recall when my drowsy deliberations morphed into slumber.

* * *

The rosy sun ascended in a myriad of beautiful colours over the hills to the east. The sky was void of grey clouds and the dawn chorus was still pronouncing its melodies across the wall fort. A more superstitous person than I might have taken this to be a favourable omen for the events to come, but I was not so optimistic. At a glance I could see that the criminals residing in the adjacent cells were still in the clutches of sleep, as was the prison guard, who had been appointed to the night shift. This was not convenient as I was determined to prepare for the trial which would take place at a more respectable hour of the morning. 

"Excuse me," I hissed, my face resting against the bars. "Sir!" I sighed in frustration at his lack of response and repeated my call but louder this time. The tactic payed off but at the expense of disturbing a scruffy man sprawled on his back in the cell next to me. The young Roman guard looked startled and disgruntled at first but when he saw that it was I who had been attempting to attract his attention he softened slightly, perhaps knowing that I was to be tried for murder today or otherwise taking pity on me in my dishevelled state. "I am sorry to trouble you, sir but is it possible for me to have some water? I would very much like to bathe..." I trailed off awkwardly, hoping that he would not share the temperant of our earlier warden. He hesistated noticeably, unsure of himself but replied apologetically:

"I should _like_ to get some water for you, miss, but you see, I'm not supposed to leave prisoners unattended." I nodded resignedly, reluctant to appear in such a state before a magistrate. Seeing my blatant dismay, the young man offered: " I could fetch some for you when Lyndon arrives to replace me. Would that please you?"

"Yes, I would very much appreciate that," I said eagerly, but realising that I sounded insolent and ungrateful, I added with my gratitude apparent in my tone, "Thank you kindly, sir."

When the time came for the changing of the watch, I waited impatiently to see if the kind Roman guard would keep his word. I should not have doubted his generosity but he seemed almost too kind to be true - especially for a hardened Roman soldier. He returned several minutes later and, after explaining the situation to his friend, opened the cell door and placed a pail of water in front of me.

"I hope that will suffice," the Roman said shortly and with a nod to first me and then the other guard, he left the prison. I dipped a finger in the water to test its temperature and found it to be lukewarm, but thankfully clear. Without further ado, I splashed the liquid on my face, clenching my eyes tightly shut and scrubbed at my cheeks, hoping to rid my complexion of built up dirt or grime. Next, I plunged my arms into the pail, but froze when I caught sight of two prisoners watching me with an intensity that was far from innocent. The shabby-looking man I had awoken that morning, leered at me, revealing surprisingly white, straight teeth. I glared openly at them, feeling extremely self-conscious and muttered mutinously to myself, carrying on with washing my arms. Once I had finished I discarded my breakfast because of my lack of appetite, especially for yet more stale bread and waited uneasily for the summons from the law courts of our fort. Whether by good or bad fortune, I did not have to wait long for soon two soldiers starlted me from an unpleasant daydream and removed me from the tiny prison cell. I was harried all the way through the winding streets to the courts by the soldiers, who had no sympathy for my leaden legs that were weak from lack of use in the last two days.

It was an odd thought that occurred to me as I took my place directly in front of the magistrate, who was no other than the idol of my childhood and friend of my uncle, Gaius Hadrianus Marcellus.  
All I could later recall of the trial was the jeers of the people, the accounts of 'witnesses' who claimed that they had heard an argument between me and the murdered Roman, or that I was prone to wild fits of frenzied rage, and finally the pronouncement of a sorrowful Hadrianus Marcellus:

"Guilty."

That simple word alone resounded in my mind as I was supported roughly back to my cell by a guard, whose identity was utterly meaningless to me. _Guilty. _As true realisation of my fate set in, my breath quickened and my vision blurred. I vaguely felt myself falling and then I lost consciousness.

* * *

I leant back against the rough stones of the wall, my eyes closed and my brow furrowed. I could, or would not cry for my situation and everything seemed to be surrounded by a surreal aura: prisoners, guards, the now familiar cell and the people's voices unnaturally in my ears. It was now only twelve days to the established date of my execution at the centre of the fort's community. I cynically reflected that the spectacle of my death would far exceed my popularity in life. I almost smiled at this morbid thought. 

I heard a voice calling my name, but I not deign to respond, because what was the point of anything now? Could I not be left in peace? The person shook my shoulder none too gently and I forced myself to open my eyes with a considerable effort of will. The man was a youthful soldier, dressed in the red and gold of the Roman legions. It took several seconds before I recognised his concerned face - it was the kindly guard who had fetched bathing water for me.

"Miss, are you feeling well?" The nameless man enquired and I almost glared at him, but chose not to reply as my condition would cause me to say something rude or uncomplimentary. Wincing, he seemed to realise his foolish question and instead carefully lifted me to my feet and helped me to sit on the bed. Then, after glancing around at the peacefully sleeping prisoners, revealed a scrap of dog-eared parchment, which he handed to me furtively. I looked to him for an explanation, but he cryptically gestured to the note and then returned to his post by the door. Feeling less weak than before, I shifted into the line of moonlight drifting through my window and read the hurried scrawled note:

'Isolde,  
Now that your life is in grave danger, I feel that I must finally inform you of the corrupt dealings of your relative, Lord Gwrytheyrn, myself and the eminent Roman architect, Franciscus Terentius. In my defense, I had no wish to go through with the despicable deeds but that can never justify the small part I play in others' stories, and especially your own.  
For a while now, Gwrtheyrn has not been the same man that he was in his younger days before your mother's departure for Ireland and, I do not know if you are already aware of this, has been responsible for the spree of murders of rich men, living or working nearby. He is motivated by a consuming greed for wealth, which he snatches from the victims, but mostly by his desire for supreme power. Gwrytheyrn has communicated with an assassin of sorts, of whom I know nothing, to organise these murders and frame you, after he decided that your level of knowledge was dangerous to his cover. He told us that you had maybe discovered this in a letter written in Greek he caught you reading in his study, and also may have gained knowledge from eavesdropping on our last meeting.

I was commanded to pronounce you guilty at the trial, but now I hope to act and in some ways reddem myself of my henious wrongdoings. There is a man, the son of a Roman commander I knew in my miliary days, who I will contact at your word to arrange your safe passage out of this fort and into a new haven. I will offer him in return evidence of our guilt in these murders, which you can provide him with at your arrival at a safe destination. I solemnly promise that I can get you out of these walls, if only he will then keep you safe in the world beyond this fortress. I have great confidence that Artorius Castus will agree to my plan, because of my close comradeship with his father and, if he lives up to his legendary reputation in the slightest, he will not corrupt and greed to cause the death of an innocent.

I will send a note containing the date of your escape, if you will agree to this plan, and help an old man regain some honour.'

The note ended on this sentimental point with a unmistakeable, elegant scrawl that was Hadrianus Marcellus' signature and all morbid thoughts of death and waste fled my mind. I was going to escape and, if Hadrianus got his way, with the help of the famous Arthur! He was a man of contrasting blood, like myself and I had heard many tales of his and the Sarmatian knights' adventures.

I looked up at the Roman soldier who was staring at the message in my hand pointedly as if waiting for something. Initially, I assumed he wanted payment for ferrying the risky letter, but of course I had no money to pay him with anyway. He raised his eyebrows quizzically and again gestured to the note in my lap. It suddenly dawned on me that he was asking me for Hadrianus' answer to his proposal. I nodded firmly and, with a determined look in my eyes, crumpled the letter in my fist. I would not despair yet.

Days passed and as each of the hours dragged by, I grew more and more weary of my confinement, weary even, at times of life itself. I psuhed aside the intermittent meal we were offered, watching enviously as the minor criminals were freed by the guards after their lesson was learnt, or bribe paid. I occupied my time by observing people around me, their particular ways and habits. It was something I had never been bothered with when I was living life with my uncle, but now my entire perception of the world had been altered in a matter of a days.

And so it was a great shock to me in my destitute state of mind when I received a second note with my dinner. At first I thought that my guard, as I had taken to calling the nameless Roman guard who had shown compassion to me, had accidently dropped a personal letter from his family or wife, so casually did he drop it, but then I understood that it was the message that my life depended on. I could not bare to look at it for several seconds, dreading the negetive news I was so certain I would find, but that was not the case. There was a single line of script:

'Be ready for my redemption in three days time. Do not lose hope, it is my final gift to you.'


	4. Chapter 4

Again, I would absolutely love some more reviews or constructive criticism and hope you will all enjoy the knights' first (admittedly very brief) appearance in my story! Thanks very much to my last reviewers, **cleopatra32003** and **shariena.  
**Also, I have lowered the rating slightly because I do not think the level of violence and language in future chapters will reflect the T rating.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own the King Arthur film or its characters. This is for entertainment purposes only.

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**Four  
****  
Night Flight  
**

My escape was due to begin in the earliest hours of the morning, when the slender moon was still high in the sky and darkness still swathed the land, providing invaluable concealment from unfriendly gazes. I knelt tensely before the bars of my cell, grasping them so tightly that my knuckles whitened. I felt both ill and wide awake with nerves and I could do naught but stare blankly at the other prisoners and the dozing guard. Hadrianus had done his best to ensure that there would be as few inmates as possible within the prison on this night of my escape, even pardoning men who had blatantly commited a crime against the Empire. The lack of life in the prison had at first been an eerie experience for me, but by yesterday I no longer cared about the immoral affairs of the fort and its people.

A few minutes later, I heard the faintly audible sound of someone approaching the door of the prison with an even gait and I craned my neck, trying to peer around the corner so I could get a good view of the entrance. The stout guard jerked back from semi-consciousness when he was disturbed by a rhythmical knocking at the prison door and his eyes darted furtively over to my alert form, before he rose from his chair and strode towards the source of the knocking. With quick, quiet movements the man unlocked the door and stood back to let the visitor into the room, who pulled a jangling leather purse from his belt and extracted four weighty coins, which glittered in the light of the waning wall latern as they exchanged hands. The guard in turn handed over the ring of keys that could provide the first stage of my freedom and then withdrew, allowing the other man to come up to the door of my cell and small smile tugged at the corners of my parched lips as Magistrate Hadrianus Marcellus frowned down at me inscrutably. I gave no word of greeting, not considering it the time or place for formalities - an opinion which he wisely seemed to share.

"I have brought you some more suitable garments for travel. They belonged to my young nephew and should fit," He whispered abruptly, forcing a large bundle of cloth between the bars as he turned the key in the lock. I savoured the soft clicking noise as the cell door which had kept me imprisoned for so many days, swung open. "Hurry, Isolde."

I noticed that both he and the Roman guard had politely turned their backs so that I could put on the clothes and so I swiftly unravelled the garments, finding a clean, but heavily creased white shirt, a pair of black breeches, a pair of supple leather boots and a voluminous dark hooded cloak. Whilst attempting to supress the animalistic instinct to simply run for the exit and freedom, I slipped my feet out of my slippers and wrenched the breeches, finding them uncomfortably tight around my hips but also loose around my waist. This was unsurprising since they had been made for a boy and I did not fuss but glanced around at the sleeping prisoners and my rescuers before removing my grimy blue dress and pulling the shirt on over my shift. Next, I slipped my cold feet into the riding boots, which, to my relief fit snugly and then I pulled on the hooded cloak, relishing the delightful warmth it brought me.

I crept out of the cell and tapped Hadrianus' arm mutely, who simply grasped my arm firmly and helped me out of the prison, sympathetic to my weakened muscles. Outside there was a cool breeze which brought back memories of the British weather that had seemed so distant to me whilst in my isolated cell. However, this time I did not complain at all, but rather felt invigorated by the cold and prospect of rain. I followed the magistrate through the empty streets as he clung to the cover of shadows and marvelled at the silent agility with which he moved for a man well into his fifties, but supposed it was due to his years of service to Rome that had kept him fit and nimble.

We moved quickly now, heading towards the outskirts of the fortress where Hadrianus' spacious house was situated. I walked with particular care, not wanting my natural ungainliness to cause us to be caught in the middle of our escape, and so lagged behind him slightly but never so much as to lose sight of his silhouette. Suddenly, Hadrianus darted quickly into a gloomy, sheltered doorway and gestured wildly for me to do same. Frightened, I ran into his hiding place which at a brief glance appeared to lead to a closed tavern and the smell of stale beer and other noxious stenches confirmed this in my mind. I glanced at Hadrianus with wide eyes that surely openly displayed my fears but he was watching and listening for things I could not yet sense in the night. With bated breath, I waited, counting the seconds as they went by and being all too painfully aware of how loudly air left my lips. Then I too heard the noise of someone heading down the street we were on but I did not dare look out from the cover of the doorway. Their heavy footsteps were uneven and they mumbled quietly, the words undistinguishable from each other. Even though the person was growing ever closer to our hiding spot, I saw Hadrianus relax his tense form beside me and I presumed he considered the person harmless. We waited over a minute for the man to pass - he was a drunken, wretched man who sang an utterly incomprehensible under his breath - and then after a further few minutes walk, we reached Hadrianus' villa. A slaveboy stood outside with a bright oil lamp and wordlessly led us around the house to where two horses were tethered to a post. Their breath was visible against the darkness and they figited nervously, moving this way and that, tossing their magnificent heads.

Hadrianus mounted his grey mare with apparent ease, but I had more difficulty getting on my own horse. He was a fine, dark brown horse who had been gifted to me by Hadrianus some years ago but I rarely had a chance to ride him and so Murtagh was left in the capable care of Hadrianus' stablehands. The slave rushed to my assistance and soon I was seated fairly comfortably in the saddle and once again the now familiar feeling of apprehension rose within me. It was not that I was an awful rider, although I had to admit, I was a little out of practice but instead doubt rose from Hadrianus' plans which seemed fanciful - dreams born of a guilty man's hope.

However, the magistrate permitted me no time to ponder on this folly but, with a authoratative flick of his gloved hand bade me follow his lead. I did so and as we neared the town's gates, I pulled the hood further over my face, praying that the shadows would conceal my identity and that the watchmen would not ask unecessary questions of a respected man of the fortress. This was undoubtedly the most dangerous part of the escape and relied upon the guards' diligence and also on their cynicism derived from long years of grueling experience in the army.

"Halt, riders! What purpose do you have leaving the town in the middle of the night? Can your business not wait until the morning?" Demanded a boisterous soldier with a mischievous smirk. We stopped our horses in compliance with his orders and I bit my lip anxiously as two more armed guards came to back up their friend.

"I am Magistrate Gaius Hadrianus Marcellus, Scipio Silanus," he replied nonchalantly but with a subtle edge, directing his face towards the light and thus revealing his distinctive features to the soldier. The man blanched, noticeable even in the half-light but rallied admirably, preparing himself to repeat his other questions. "My business is private and certainly nothing someone like you should know. All you need to know is that it is indeed so urgent that it cannot wait until the morning or else it would be too late. I must leave now with a servant to deliver a message myself upon Governor Gwytheyrn's personal orders. If you doubt the wisdom of such orders, I suggest you have a discussion with him upon my return. No? Then let us pass with all haste man!" I jumped myself as Hadrianus all but barked the last part of his speech and it had a similar effect on the humbled Roman soldiers, who rushed to open the massive gates. I marvelled at Hadrianus' genius, while not subtle he certainly knew how to manipulate them to our advantage and I was sceptical as to whether they would even report his exit to their commander without prompting. And so, in less than an hour, Hadrainus had successfully freed me from prison and, as I urged Murtagh through the aperture of the gates he had completed the hardest task of smuggling a prisoner due to be executed out of a Roman military fort. It was almost perfect in my opinion.

The two of us headed at a fast trot towards the edge of a stretch of woodland where Hadrianus had presumably arranged to meet with Artorius. If I had not been so terrified of the possibility of recapture, it would have excited me to know that I was about to come face-to-face with perhaps the most famous commander in Britain. As we entered the forest, I glanced briefly back at the fort I had been raised for most of my life in. I did not expect to ever return and so I tried to retain an image of its magnificent walls in my head so, if my escape was not a failure, I could recall the place I had dwelt in since I was seven years of age.

"Goodbye," I whispered, neither saddned or overjoyed at the thought of leaving the fortress to start a new life elsewhere. My horse pawed the ground, impatient to be moving again and this propelled me to follow Hadrianus into the cover of the trees. Inside, the unfamiliar sounds of night thronged up around me and I quickened Murtagh's pace to keep up with the Magistrate, who had kindly waited just within the woodland, aware of my desire for a moment alone. We rode in complete silence for what seemed like an hour, but must have only been a matter of minutes in reality and on several occasions, I thought I caught a glimpse of a beast or even a Woad warrior but they were nothing but mere shadows. So absorbed in my inexperienced and rather paranoid scouting, I failed to notice Hadrianus halt and subsequently was forced to rein Murtagh in too sharply to avoid a collision. I winced as his whicker of protest cut through the natural noises of the forest and quickly shot an apologetic glance at my escort, who scowled at me.

"Wait here at first, Isolde. I want to ensure this will not turn out to be some vile trap. I shall call to you when it is safe," Hadrianus murmmured, his eyes scanning the clearing up ahead of us. I nodded slowly, reluctant to be left alone but also seeing the sense of his words. I carefully manouvered Murtagh off the track to hide as best as we could amongst the dense shrubbery. Hadrianus had stopped his mare by a thick, gnarled tree, dismounted and then prodceeded to busy himself with sorting out the loaded saddlebags. I frowned in impatient irritation, and considered that either we were slightly earlier than expected or that the knights were simply late. I opted for the former, confident that punctuality would be necessary skill in Arthur and the Sarmatians' line of work. Soon my mind began to wander and I wondered what the reactions of the people of the fort would be when they discovered a 'murderer' and a highly esteemed man of justice missing.

By the rotation of the stars I could just observe through a gap in the canopy, I calculated that it was about a full hour after our arrival at the clearing that the famous cavalry men entered it with a serious looking man at their head. Hadrianus rose from his sedentry postion on the ground to greet the men with quiet words.

There were eight men in the company - the serious man with dark curls and the red cloak of the Romans who had proceeded first into the glade and now began discussing some matter with Hadrianus could only be Arthur, the Romano-Briton leader of the knights. However, I could not provide the others with their rightful names, not having seen them before in my life. I watched closely as they dismounted and some moved together to talk in friendly tones whilst one knight in particular remained noticeably isolated from the rest. Although the light was not yet sufficient to see his features very clearly, he caught my attention first from both his apparently willing separation from the rest of the knights and his outlandish and unkept appearance with shaggy dark hair, and rainment that was nothing like what Roman and Briton warriors fought in. I could see his sword, which had a peculiar curved edge to it and I could see that all the knights had their own personal preference for weapons as there was a wide assortment strapped on their horses and their bodies. My attention was suddenly drawn away from the strange, watchful knight towards the other Sarmatians when a heavy, bald man started to crudely insult a handsome, smirking comrade, who lounged against a tree, apparently at ease despite the threats being directed his way. I wrinkled my nose in distaste of the choice of words being bandied between the two, a large proportion of which I had never before hear but could only guess at their meaning. The other knights laughed or exchanged wry looks, giving me the distinct impression that this was not a particularly rare occurence. In the few minutes I had spent observing them, I had already developed an opinion on them, finding the motley collection of men so utterly opposite all other men I had been acquainted with in both Ireland and Britain. They did not seem to live up to their fierce barbarian warrior reputation either, but then again I had yet to witness them in a battle and maybe that was where the startling transformation would take effect most noticeably. 

Perhaps it was my troublesome trait of curiousity combined with an inexplainable inelegance that had always plagued me, that conspired against me to make some noise to give my carefully chosen position away, but just as I was sweeping my gaze over the strange men before me, I gasped in shock as I saw the solitary knight boldly staring straight in my direction. My sharp intake of breath disturbed my fretful and ill-trained horse who, up until then had been contentedly muching on the leafy undergrowth, snorted loudly and tried to desert me, noisily trampling over plants. Despite the fact that he did not get far due to my admirably fast grab for his reins, the damage had already been done and the majority of the knights and Hadrianus had picked out my form through the leafy cover.

"Come here, Isolde," Hadrianus called, sounding none too impressed. I was almost tempted to refuse, so intense was my embarrassment, but setting a contrite look on my countenance and after balefully glaring at Murtagh, I shuffled into the glade leading my horse. I muttered a short apology to Hadrianus and went to stand next to him for some comfort amongst the strange knights.

"Greetings, lady," Arthur said courteously. I bowed my head and murmurmed a fitting reply, fixing my eyes on the hilt of his legendary blade, Excalibur. "I am Arthur Castus, commander of the Sarmatian knights and we are here to escort you back to our fort for safety. Are you ready to leave?"

"Yes, sir," I answered, trying to convey how grateful I was for their help with a shy smile. Arthur nodded curtly to Hadrianus and mounted his white horse easily from the many years of experience. I had heard that the knights had to dedicate fifteen years of service to the Roman cause but I did not know the conditions or how much they had still to serve. I turned and saw the other knights also getting on their horses but the knight with the twin swords and slight smirk who had so annoyed his companion earlier grinned slightly at me. I quickly busied myself with adjusting Murtagh's stirrups, but noticed that the magisrate had made no move to mount his own steed yet and instead stood watching the activities around him with a benign, vague interest.

"Sir?" I called softly to him, bemused by his inactivity. Did he not realise that we needed to set off now? "We are leaving now..." I stopped when he approached me with an odd expression that unsettled me greatly.

"Isolde... I am not coming with you, surely you knew that!" He admonished gently, sighing at my growing alarm.

"What will become of you? They...my uncle will know it was you who set me free?" I fretted, not wanting another figure from my past to desert me and fall into the arms of death, which would surely face him at his return.

"This is something that I feel that I must do and if it results in my death, so be it. I have lived long enough," Hadrianus stated resolutely. I felt my eyes fill with tears at his suicidal courage and despaired at what must be sacrificed for justice in this world which claimed to be civilized. "Here is the evidence that should prove sufficent to convict Gwrytheyrn, that architect Fransiscus Terentius and I as well. Give it to Arthur upon your arrival at the fort and give all the assisstance you can to ensure that they are stopped. Ah, I nearly forgot! Take this money. It should be enough to start up at Arthur's fort. Be strong, Isolde. Your mother would be proud of you, I know it," He finished, smiling affectionately and he leant down to kiss my forehead. I tried to repress the sobs that threatened to expose my deep sorrow and with a final look at Hadrianus' gruff, aquiline features and effervescent eyes, I awkwardly clambered onto Murtagh's saddle, placing the envelope with the incriminating greek letter inside the leather pouch with the heavy coins.

"Goodbye and thank you for everything you have done for me and my mother since we came from Ireland," I forced out formally but sincerely, aware that Arthur and the Sarmatians were still waiting for me at the edge of the clearing and that the autumn sky above the trees was growing ever lighter. And so begun the next stage of my life's adventures.

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	5. Chapter 5

Here is the fifth chapter and it contains a little more information about Isolde and her past becuase I have not revealed much about her so far. There is little action in this chapter but there will be in the next one to make up for this. Also, Zhiva (meaning 'living'.) was an epithet of a Sarmatian/Scythian goddess called Argimpasa (This is just a random piece of information I thought I would share, but the context of the name will be shown during the chapter.)  
As always, I hope you enjoy it and thanks to my reviewers **shorty6692**, **cleopatra32003**, **shariena** and **interfan**! Please review and tell me what you think of the knights, Isolde, plot etc. Constructive criticism always welcome.  
**Disclaimer:** I do not own the film King Arthur or the characters. This is for entertainment purposes only.

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**Five**

**Initiations and Realisations**

We rode at a steady pace along the winding woodland trail. As natural retribution for not having snatched any sleep last night, I was thoroughly exhausted, both in mind and body and sagged down low in the saddle. The paths we followed were rough and treacherously uneven as they were evidently not well used any more by the traders or hunters who had created them. Shrubs and thorny brambles formed a constant obstruction to our steeds and whilst it did not trouble the knights' experienced horses a great deal, Murtagh and I were unaccustomed to such irregular terrain and we made slow progress, lagging at the rear of the group for most of the time. The knights talked amongst themselves jovially and solemn Arthur led the way through the wood, seldom drawn into the conversation but his fondness for the knights was still evident. I stayed stubbornly silent, brooding over the unexpected departure of Gaius Hadrianus and too cautious to introduce myself properly. I had never been bold enough to socialise with strangers and stranger men than the Sarmatian knights I had never seen in my unusual, albeit quite sheltered life.

At several points during the journey, I became aware of my eyes sliding shut and hastily stirred myself with a jolt, scared of falling asleep and possibly tumbling from Murtagh's back. Each time that happened, I saw one of the Sarmatians watching me with slight concern and before long he directed his dark horse nearer to my own, remaining with his companions but close enough, I guessed, to catch me if I fell. The knight intimidated me despite his apparent good intentions because of his tall, powerful frame and his shaved head which was riddled with long scars earned in battle, but from his interactions with the others I could only see a withdrawn and mild disposition. Nevertheless, I avoided meeting his eye and acted as if I did not notice the glances he sent my way. After I had just evaded the clutches of slumber yet again, the knight, with a backward glance spurred his horse to the front of the column to converse with his commander. I tried to studiously ignore them when Arthur turned to stare at me as if evaluating my condition and fitness to continue on the ride. I did not want to be responsible for hampering the knights' pace and so I straightened up and gripped the reins tightly, using rough feel of the leather against my soft, uncalloused palms to keep me as alert as possible. However, it was evidently not very convincing because Arthur reluctantly held up his hand as a signal to stop.

"We shall rest for a short while. Tristan, scout ahead for a suitable place to stop," Arthur commanded authoritatively, leaving me in no doubt that it would do little good to protest.

The strange man with the curved sword nodded briskly and impassively, his curiously braided hair swinging over his facial features. There was no doubt amongst the group that the break was intended solely for my benefit and a couple of the men groaned in complaint for the unscheduled delay. Tristan, the first and only knight I could name, cantered off ahead of us to scout and I was left to wonder how long it would take to reach their fort at the pace we were travelling at. I knew our destination was one of the many Roman outposts situated along Hadrian's Wall and east of my former home but I had no clue how far in that direction it lay. Plucking up a small measure of courage from my limited reserve, I glanced across at the large knight who had told Arthur of the weariness that threatened to injure me.

"Excuse me, sir," I called, my voice sounding more shrill and hesitant than usual. The knight turned his attention towards me politely and waited patiently as I formed the qustion in my head before speaking, not wanting to say something incredibly foolish. "How long shall it take to reach your fort?"

"We should reach it by sunset tomorrow," he answered helpfully. His grave manner and low voice were strangely calming and I relaxed slightly. "I am Dagonet."

"I am Isolde," I said, giving the customary reply with a tentative attempt at a smile, which I did not think was very successful.

"You should not be afraid of us. We will not hurt you," Dagonet assured me seriously and I nodded, more to placate him than in actual agreement with his words. It was not that I did not trust their intentions or honour, but I felt no comfort in their company whilst they still remained strangers to me. Dagonet and I did not continue conversing after that and Tristan soon returned on his attractive dappled grey horse to lead the way to a safe location in the woodland where we could take a brief respite. It was a secluded open space by a bubbling brook and there was a thick blanket of dry leaves on the floor, which crunched loudly under our footsteps. The trees themselves were bare and gnarled, testament to the age of this forest and the autumnal season.We dismounted and I winced at the soreness of my muscles, so unused as I was to riding such distances. The horses were then tethered to several strong trees with sturdy lengths of rope and after struggling with my stubborn, disobedient horse for minute or so, Dagonet approached and soothed Murtagh enough to enable him to tie the tether with ease. Their skill with horses combined with the lack of pain they felt only made me envy them and increased my feeling of unhappiness.

For the first time, Arthur came up to me with a bundle of food and a full waterskin in his hands. He handed them to me without a word and I accepted them gratefully as my hunger and thirst had troubled me throughout the ride.

"Have a meal and then you must rest, lady. We will need to travel a vast distance before darkness falls," Arthur informed me, glancing up at the sky above before returning his attention to me again. "Do not be afraid to sleep as we will protect you."

I thanked him again as courteously as I could and knelt down carefully, pained by the stiffness of my limbs. I consumed the plain meal of bread and cheese rapidly, relishing the simple food as it filled my empty stomach and banished my ravenous hunger. After taking several gulps of cool water, I settled myself against the stump of a dead tree with my cloak wrapped tightly around my body. I did not really want to fall asleep in front of these unfamiliar men as I felt vulnerable enough when awake, but when my eyelids began to droop as if attached to lead weights, I knew I had no choice in the matter. No sooner than I had come to this conclusion, I dropped off to a peaceful and restful sleep.

* * *

It was very cold once the cover of darkness fell and we stopped our exertions in favour of rest. I shivered uncontrollably, regardless of my thick cloak which was now rendered useless by the heavy rain that had absolutely soaked it during the day. Thankfully the bad weather had ceased little more than an hour before but the dark clouds that still marred the sky did not bode well for the following day. We made camp on the edge of the forest and the knights efficiently made a crackling fire from the copious amounts of dry bark around us. I knew this was a more difficult task than it appeared to the casual observer as I distinctly recalled being taught the skill by my father when I was very young. I hovered at the sides, inattentively stroking Murtagh's velvety muzzle and tried not to get in the way. It did not take long for a functional camp for a small group to spring up and the knights finally sat down on logs that they had fashioned as rough seating by the fire to rest. 

"Come, sit by the fire," a young knight with long copper hair called to me, beckoning with a lazy gesture of his hand. I was about to decline but he persisted persuasively. "You'll be too ill to ride tomorrow if you don't. Besides, we have yet to introduce ourselves."

His grin was welcoming and I unsteadily rose from my solitary position outside their circle next to Murtagh and headed over to the alluring warmth. I was unsure of my reception amongst them initially but seated myself in between knight who had invited me and Dagonet, who kindly moved aside to give me room. One by one, the knights were introduced: the knight who had invited me over was Lamorak, who was very thoughful but still pleasantly talkative; Lancelot was a handsome if arrogant knight who impressively bore two twin blades but I disliked his recurring chauvinistic attitude towards women that seemed to crop up regardless of the topic of conversation; Gawain appeared wild with long tawny hair and had more of a sense of humour than his young friend Galahad, who seemed to be the most idealistic of the knights and lacked their deep sceptical view of their future; next Bors was introduced as the father of nine, soon-to-be ten bastard children and I thought his racous personality overbearing. I had already known Dagonet from our strained conversation earlier and I did not get the chance to familiarize myself with Arthur Castus or Tristan because the former was absorbed writing notes in a small leather-bound book and the scout had mysteriously disappeared once we had reached the designated camp.

"Your accent is unusual. It is not exactly like the other Britons, but you certainly don't look or sound Roman either. Where are you from?" Galahad asked inquisitively and I saw his curiousity mirrored on the faces of the other knights. It seemed to be something they were all wondering. I steeled myself for a harsh response when I told them and twisted the abrasive fabric of my sleeve in my grip apprehensively. Irish raiders were not unheard of here in Britain and perhaps they had encountered them in their time of service. Maybe some of their number had even been slain by the Irish during an ambush or battle.

"My father was Irish. I lived there for the first nine years of my life," I announced hurriedly, the words merging together in my rush to get them from my mouth. They looked bemused, apparently not having understood the mumbled jargon that I had just spouted and so I repeated it more slowly, enunciating the words exaggeratedly.

"Ah,_ Irish_," Lancelot said, an odd smile on his face. I shifted uncomfortably, something that did not go unnoticed by Dagonet, who had taken to watching over me like a guardian. "Then how did you come to live here?"

So, I related my story to the famous and fearsome knights: of how I had been born into a pariah family, hated for my mother's British blood and how, when I was just nine years old, my father was brutally murdered by the clan's chief, a rival who had seized power from my father's uncle, and then how my mother's quick wit had saved us from a similar fate by sneaking us aboard an Irish raiding ship headed for the north of Britain - a route my father had once taken on the hopeless mission he had met my mother on. We had arrived in total secret, desperately starving and weak, but we had eventually reached the fort where she humbly begged her cousin Gwytheyrn to show mercy and grant us sanctury in his home. It was not hard even to relate my mother's death after battling a prolonged illness, but I found it very difficult to tell of more recent events, in particular the duplicity of my uncle and the vile deeds which he had commited in the name of greed and ambition. Bors was an especially bad listener with his loud interjections at several points, which so distracted me that I lost my place within my own story each time.

"That is some tale for one so young," sympathised Lamorak pensively but Gawain put it more bluntly,

"Yeah, you haven't exactly been lucky." The comment made me smile wryly at the truth of the words, but relating my story had cost me greatly for I was now becoming aware of what had truly taken place as the numbness that had protected me faded.

"How old are you then? You can't be much older than Galahad here..." Bors broke off laughing as Galahad scowled at him, who seemed to dislike jests involving his youth in comparison to the others. I replied that I was twenty-one, but said nothing else as I did not want to become embroiled in an argument between them, however good-natured it was. The conversation continued on around me and I was content to listen to their cheerful banter.

Pleased by my relative success at holding a reasonable conversation with the knights, I left the fireside followed by a chorus of goodnights and pleasantly warm. I thought it prudent to go to bed early as I needed more sleep than the able-bodied knights and their benevolent leader. As I searched for a suitable spot to sleep on, I noticed Tristan standing by the horses with a hawk perched on his arm. He looked up as I stopped to observe the hunting bird from a distance. I knew I did not want to get too close, but was not sure whether this was due to the hawk's viscious beak and claws, or the feral scout himself.

"Your bird is very pretty," I blurted out absently, then flushed as I had not intended to speak such a thought aloud. I had used the vacuous word _pretty _to describe the wild knight's majestic hawk. I squirmed in embarrassment I heard Gawain, Lamorak and Galahad sniggering quietly as they awaited Tristan's reaction. He gave me a sideways stoic but frankly disinterested glance and then, instead of adressing me, he spoke softly to the hawk, stroking its chest gently.

"You a pretty girl, eh? Go fetch some food." I noticed his low voice possessed a lilting edge to it that would easily identify him as a foreigner, not mentioning his outlandish garb and ways. Tristan launched the hawk into the evening sky and she glided on the breeze over the tree tops. I watched her fly away and at that moment, I saw her as the embodiement of freedom. Eager to redeem some esteem in his eyes by showing some vaguely intelligent interest, I enquired with more care this time,

"What is her name?" He sent fleeting look in my direction as if he had forgotten I was standing next to him. The tattoos on his face were now clearly visible and I saw that he had pairs of curved swords on his cheeks, similar to his own blade. His eyes were dark in the dimness of the diminishing light.

"Zhiva," he replied eventually and characteristically shortly, startling me from my scrutiny which I hoped had not been too obvious. I wanted to ask whether she helped with his scouting but refrained after he quite pointedly withdrew a gleaming knife from his belt and began carving slices from a green apple which he produced from inside his shirt. Without another word, he approached the fireside and his fellow knights, leaving me to persist my original plan of finding a comfortable spot to sleep. The green apple only reminded me of the taste of fresh fruit which I had been deprived of whilst in prison and then this train of thought led me to reflect on the home I had just recently left.

I soon gave up the search as I discovered that most of the ground felt identical beneath my feet and laid down with my back to the knights and the radiance of the blaze. My good mood departing fast, I found myself dwelling on morbid thoughts that persistently surfaced in my mind. I contemplated the surely bleak fate of Hadrianus. I doubted that he would survive for very much longer as soon as his part in my miraculous escape was unearthed and could not help but think that he had been wrong in some ways. Why did he have to leave me alone, without kith or kin to guide me? I could not understand why he could not shake off the binding shackles of honour that kept him rooted to the fort that held only death for him now. A deep bitterness and overwhelming sorrow enveloped me simultaneously, causing tears to rise in my stony grey eyes. I thought also of my treacherous uncle and wondered how the noble man of my mother's fond memories had descended into evil and deceitful monster he had now become. I even cried for my family, although long cold in their graves in the green soils of Ireland and Britain, recent events had only accentuated my isolated situation in the world.

That night I wept for all the tradgedies that had befallen me and for the sense of betrayal, suprisingly not only from my villainous uncle but from Gaius Hadrianus Marcellus and my parents, Daire and Andraste whose departures had left me utterly alone. I felt as I had never done so before in my life. My tears fell incessantly, soaking the edge of my cloak just as the rain had done earlier on.


	6. Chapter 6

Apologies, this is a bit later than expected. Thanks to my reviewers **Tarwen210**, **interfan** and **Shorty6692**. I hope you all enjoy this chapter and reviews would be very much appreciated.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own King Arthur or the characters from the film. This is for entertainment purposes only.

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**Six**

**Confrontations **

I was stirred from sleep by a firm shake to my shoulder and a low voice that cut through my fitful dreams insistently. At once, my eyes flew open but I found to my profound relief that I did not stare into the face of an executioner like I had feared in my night imaginings, but at the scarred countenance of Dagonet. My breathing quickly subsided to a slower and more natural pace as I absorbed my peaceful surroundings, glad at the reprieve from the cold sensation of fear they brought me.

"Isolde, you must wake now. We are leaving soon," he stated in his ponderous, calming voice. As I struggled into a sitting position, I saw his inspection of my wan appearance out of the corner of my eye: at my puffy eyes, tousled hair and skin of an ashen pallor. I muttered my thanks quietly and he left me alone so I could heave myself to my feet with a barely suppressed groan. In an effort to make myself more presentable for the coming day light, I tugged my fingers through my hair to smooth out the conspicuous knots and then straightened the poorly-fitting clothes Hadrianus had loaned to me for the escape. Although I was by no means especially vain, I disliked giving so slovenly an impression to Arthur and his knights, even if their opinion of me would probably not alter because of it. It was just part of my complex nature.

Around me, the men were preparing for our early departure with the same resolute vivacity they always seemed to show; with the exception of a few in their company, I had to admit. Arthur and Lancelot were in amiable conversation by the restless horses and as I looked at them, Lancelot glanced across the camp and caught my gaze with a wink. I inclined my head in a timid greeting which he returned with a typically gregarious smirk. I looked away hurriedly before an uncomfortable blush on my cheeks could become noticeable. I was not accustomed to such open and vibrant personalities that the more friendly knights possessed as I had never stumbled across such people in my life in Laigin or amongst the predominantly Roman acquaintances of my uncle. New experiences were about to become a big part in my life when I reached our destination - my latest home.

"I'm afraid you missed dinner last night, Isolde. You went to bed too early," said Lamorak as he approached, his hands laden with some food that he offered to me with a smile. I turned to him and took a proffered oat cake, nibbling it half-heartedly. I was quite surprised to find that I lacked a substantial appetite for I had not eaten since the unscheduled break yesterday and that was many hours ago. Gawain walked up to us, holding his horse's bridle and snatched an oat cake from his companion with an almost triumphant grin.

"Well, she's hardly going to eat all that!" He exclaimed through a mouthful to justify himself in the face of Lamorak's disapproval. I concealed my amusement behind my hand and was truly glad that I was with men who could so easily and unintentionally raise my spirits. It occurred to me that the majority of the Sarmatian knights no longer daunted or intimidated me as I had discovered them to be more friendly and good-natured than people that had formerly been a part of my life. However, I very much doubted they acted in this way towards their enemies, the Woads or the Romans they professed to hating so deeply.

"Isolde, are you ready to leave?" Arthur enquired, striding over towards me with his crimson cape streaming out in his wake. He was one of the men who still awed and made me nervous with his nobility of character and legendary reputation that surrounded him like an invisible, formidable aura - the boisterous Bors and the feral Tristan were others. Lancelot could effortlessly cause me to feel uncomfortable in his presence with suggestive words, but I suspected he did this deliberately for his amusement.

"Yes, sir. Shall I go and saddle Murtagh now?" I asked, having finished the small oat cake that would have to sustain me until our next meal.

"There's no need. I think you'll find that Dagonet has done that for you before you awoke," Arthur said, nodding towards the placid giant. I concealed my surprise at the knight's kindly gesture but then again, he did seem to have adopted the role of my guardian in the short time of our acquaintance. The commander led the way towards the horses, where Galahad, Tristan, Dagonet and Bors had by now mounted. "Did you sleep well? I regret that we were not able to provide more comfortable sleeping arrangements for the journey." I nodded, not trusting myself to verbally lie about my bad night's rest. Arthur and the remaining knights mounted with the telling ease of skilled horsemen, but I had considerable trouble with Murtagh. My weariness had made me infuriatingly feeble and so it took three laboured attempts to pull myself into the saddle. My horse pranced unhelpfully and in the end, I gritted my teeth and swiftly and messily climbed onto the stirrup before gracelessly swinging my right leg over his back . I nodded at Arthur self-consciously, welcoming the dark hair that fell across my face in the motion because of my intense embarrassment at my telling weakness. Without a word, he spurred his snowy war horse down the track leading from the ancient woodland to the open countryside.

We rode more with more speed than the previous day and this did nothing to alleviate my slightly tender condition. I stroked Murtagh's neck in an almost possessive manner as it suddenly struck me that he, the simple necessities Hadrianus had given me and the men's clothes I wore were the only possessions I now owned and the only things that served as reminders of my past at the fort of my uncle Gwyrtheyrn. The thought made me sigh heavily but I could not cry any longer and was determined not to do so like I had that night ever again. It took quite an act of will to abandon these deliberations that so depressed me, but the fresh breeze across my cheeks made me turn my gaze to the land around our unusual convoy.

The scenery of the expansive and undulating hills of the north of Britain combined with the awe-inspiring feat of Roman architecture that was Hadrian's Wall filled me with unmitigated wonder. I had not travelled far from the fort in recent years and the memory of the wild surroundings had been tarnished and sorely faded in my mind. The stonework that towered above us was vast and stretched further than the horizon across beautiful hilltop meadows and through patches of dense, shadowy woodland. It was a very welcome sight after the continual gloom of the sprawling forest that now lay behind us. Arthur's plan was to skirt the wall, wavering only to avoid the small settlements who may have had news of my escape if my uncle had indeed circulated it around neighbouring communities. Then, shortly after the Sun's descent we hoped to arrive at their base fort.

So enraptured by the panorama, I failed to notice that I had not only fallen to the very rear of the group, but was also a small distance behind the knights. I gave Murtagh a gentle nudge of encouragement and he gladly cantered forward to catch up with his fellow steeds . The knights sounded like they were discussing the Romans in none too complimentary terms. As I drew up alongside Tristan who was on the edge of the mobile assembly of Sarmatians, Galahad called over to me,

"Isolde, what do _you _think of the Romans?" I was slightly bemused by the unexpected question and unsure of how to answer it with tact. My mind worked slower than usual because of my fatigue and so my answer was not as quick in coming as I would have liked.

"I don't like what they have done and I think it was very wrong of them to invade Britain...and other countries too, of course. The Romans have done _some_ good, I think," I answered carefully and flinched when many of the knights made angry noises of protest. "But they also have dealt many injustices to people not their own."

"You speak fairly, but I must beg to differ on your views. _I_ see no good that the Romans have done to those they have conquered and we have been witness to many things these past years," Lamorak told me equably. I nodded my appreciation of his compliment and for his somewhat reasonable reaction to my words in comparison to some of the more volatile knights. I chewed my lip uneasily as I became aware of the feelings that I had roused amongst the Sarmatian knights. It had not been my intention to rouse their anger and jeopardise the tenuous bond we had developed only the previous night.

"Then do you think Romans have to right to take people as slaves?" Gawain asked with a dangerous edge to his normally amicable tone. I recognised that they were talking about their own situation and I spoke quickly and to the best of my ability to try to pacify them.

"No, of course not. I only meant that they have brought much wealth and ease of life to places like Britain, although I understand that many would value simplicity of life." I held my breath, waiting to see if I would cause more offense. Apparently it did not as the tangible tension that had shown in the knights' postures and expressions melted away.

"You meant no harm to us. Do not be frightened," Dagonet rumbled shortly as he dropped back to ride next to me. Curiously, I asked how long they had been fighting for Rome. "Nearly fourteen years. After we have served fifteen we shall be free and shall do what we will." I fell silent, contemplating his future and those of his brothers-in-arms. Fifteen years was a unimaginably long time to fight for a cause they were so strongly opposed to and many of their fellow Sarmatians must have already sacrificed their lives for it. From the head of the column, Arthur called for Tristan to explore the next patch of woodland a little way ahead. I watched meditatively as the scout galloped past and eventually disappeared off under the bows of the trees like a ghost.

Turning my attention back to the entertaining Sarmatians to pass the time, I smiled to see them mocking each other in good humour, although Galahad seemed annoyed to be the brunt of most of it. Arthur even joined the conversation once or twice and I could tell that they held no lasting anger or resentment for my mixed comments regarding the Romans. Minutes passed and I revelled only in the engulfing freedom that the landscape brought to my heart, allowing the laughter and chatter of the men wash over me. In the distance, I caught sight of the instantly recognisable figure of Tristan returning at a rapid pace, his braided hair swinging over his face in the time with the fluid gait of his horse. The others saw him too and Arthur stopped us again so that he could converse easily with his trusted scout. They talked in low voices as Tristan related his report to his commander.

"Knights, Isolde," Arthur called to attract our attention, but there was no need for we were patiently silent anyway. "There is evidence of Woads having been recently active in the forest ahead but none were seen. We shall proceed with caution." I nodded nervously, sobered by the news of the brutal natives but the knights did not seem unduly troubled, maybe just a little more quiet and alert. There was still a distance to travel before we reached the woodland and so I drew closer to the knights, seeking protection and reassurance from their presence. Zhiva, the scout's hawk alighted on his arm with a shrill squawk and I watched her closely in my peripheral vision, not trusting her vicious appearance enough to dismiss the sharpness of her talons and beak.

"Have you ever tried dried meat, Isolde? Lots of wholesome sustenance in it," Gawain declared with a broad grin. "Try a bit. It's good." I warily accepted the dark strip of meat from him, being careful not to stretch too far for fear of falling and then I tentatively sampled a bite from the very corner. Almost immediately after I started chewing, I pulled a face of disgust: the dried meat had both the texture and, as I imagined the taste of the toughest leather. This was the cause of great amusement to the knights and lightened the atmosphere considerably, for them at least. Even Arthur cracked a smile and Bors, Gawain and Lancelot had no qualms about laughing uproariously at my expense.

Once he could summon the breath to speak coherently again, Bors roared, "This ain't your fancy Roman food, is it? You've been living with 'em too long. You act like one." It was unmistakably an accusation and playful insult in his eyes by the way he jabbed his finger rudely in my vicinity, but from my experiences I was glaringly not Roman at all. However, I dismissed it with a shake of my head and instead gazed anxiously at the woodland that was growing closer with every of Murtagh's swift footfalls. Although the evidence suggested that there was no recent Woad activity beneath the shady branches of the trees, I was not keen to enter any forest where they had trod in the past. They were masters of the northern terrain and could move as silently as phantoms and kill ruthlessly as the most heartless of warriors - or so the Roman soldiers had said. I was given some comfort by the fact that I was under the protection of the best fighters in all of the land, but to what ends could they defeat such a formidable opponent? The hawk beside me spread her wings restively but remained stationary for the moment. Looking down at the uneaten dried meat that I still held in my hand, I was struck by an idea.

"Tristan," I said cautiously. He swung his unnervingly detached eyes onto me, eyebrows raised in query. "Would Zhiva like the meat?"

"She doesn't like strangers much," he replied negatively but Galahad, who had apparently taken an interest in our brief conversation casually intervened.

"Give her a chance. That bird of yours might like Isolde," the brown-haired knight grinned. I glanced at Tristan hesitantly for permission, but he simply held his arm out partially towards me. The hawk seemed disgruntled at the motion at first but soon caught sight of my outstretched hand and inched forward in interest. Leaning forward, she meticulously examined the brown, unappetising ribbon of meat I offered to her before striking out at my finger with her razor sharp beak and then, quicker than I could protectively snatch my wounded hand back, she seized the dried meat. I cried out in pain, biting back a curse and pinched my bleeding finger to numb the stinging sensation and stem the modest flow of blood. The knights were chuckling and I openly glowered at them, irritated at looking like a fool for the second time this morning. I glanced over at Zhiva who had consumed the dried meat and was perched indifferently on her master's arm. The scout was equally indifferent at first, but for an instant I swore I saw him glance at the other knights and the corners of his mouth seemed to barely noticeably twitch upwards for a mere second before returning to neutral. I was not sure if this was my imagination or something real, so fleeting had it seemed, and therefore I focused on wiping the crimson blood from my forefinger onto my tunic. Lamorak belatedly asked if I was alright, but I shrugged it off with a tight smile, determined not to sulk for the rest of the day for petty and immature reasons. Dagonet shook his head in affectionate consternation and soon talk turned to their interesting lives at the fort.

Soon, we approached the forest's boundary and the knights wordlessly manoeuvred into a protective circle around me. The coldness and dimness of the woodland seemed to affect all of our moods and I sat stiffly in the saddle, sick of the sight of the enclosed and treacherous woods. There was no trail through this one, as it was not a route travelled by many due to the risk of ambush from bandits or Woads. Everywhere I looked I thought I glimpsed a shadowy figure hiding behind a tree trunk or crouching beneath a shrub, but at another, closer look the apparitions vanished from sight. My mind was playing cruel tricks on me and I tried to convince myself that Tristan and the other knights would know if people were really nearby. I was agonising over grim thoughts of the outcome of an ambush when the scout in a swift, practised motion raised his bow, notched a slender arrow and fired into the semi-darkness of the trees around us. I regret to say I let out a muffled shriek, petrified that we were under attack and then I heard what sounded like something falling and crushing the plants around it - a body. The knights drew their swords as Tristan shot another arrow after his first and this time there was a distinctly human cry of pain mingled with the sound of running footsteps. My hands clenched tightly around the reins so that my nails dug into the flesh of my palms and I cowered in the saddle, glancing around wide-eyed and confused by the silence.

"Woad scouts. Three of them," Tristan stated, his eyes scanning the surround for more blue assailants. I fearfully did the same along with the knights, who still held their weapons at the ready.

"How many did you kill?" Gawain asked tensely. The scout replied monosyllabically that he had slain two and that left the third to report back to their leader.

"We must hurry then and hope Merlin does not have time to rally a force to attack us,"Arthur commanded steadfastly with his mouth set in a forbidding line. "Isolde, keep to the centre please where we may best protect you." I complied willingly, inching Murtagh forward without complaint. Arthur set off at a gallop and I waited momentarily for others to set off after him first.

"That's if he hasn't already," Lancelot muttered darkly and I could not help but share his sentiment of this Merlin, which would not seem amiss with my current run of fortune. Swallowing nervously with my heart pounding, I prompted my horse into a gallop after Tristan and Galahad. The air whipped past my cheeks and Murtagh's dark mane flew back as I crouched low in the saddle, riding faster than I had ever before in my life. My weariness was no longer a problem when a rush of fear and sheer energy abolished everything else. All I knew was the speed with which the monotonous scenery passed by and the figure of the rider in front of me that guided my path through the wood.

"Woads!" Shouted a voice from ahead that I recognised as Arthur's. I heard the scream of metal upon metal and the resonant creaking of bow strings as the knights drew their melee weapons or aimed their arrows at the spaces between the dense trees. A roaring in my ears amplified tenfold and Murtagh halted suddenly, roughly throwing me forward in the saddle. I heard shouting and battle cries through my immobilising terror, but could not act as my jittery horse shied away from the charging Woads. Desperately, I hunkered down low and clung on as Murtagh, who had the same amount of experience of battle as I myself had reared up to avoid an enemy arrow. Suddenly, I saw movement heading towards us from the corner of my eye and whipped around with a cry of fear. However, it was only Dagonet and he seized control of Murtagh in a way I could never hope to master and led us quickly to the boundary of the cramped battlefield.

"Get down and stay here," he ordered, his deep voice penetrating the horrific noises of the combat. I did so whilst he headed back into the skirmish with his huge sword swinging and cutting down all those who dared face him. Trembling on the leafy ground, I could not draw my eyes away from the horrendous scene unfolding in front of me: Arthur fought with a unsurpassed skill with Excalibur, whilst Lancelot wielded his twin blades to bloody victory against his foes; Gawain and Bors fought brutally at close quarters but Lamorak and Galahad were their opposites -only drawn in when needed, preferring to strike down the Woads with arrows; and Tristan danced, both frighteningly deadly and elegant, his curved sword quick in delivering death. All this I saw and also the the native men and women dying, their bodies rendered useless after confrontation with the famed Sarmatian cavalry. The smell of metallic blood permeated my nostrils and I gagged after witnessing another young Woad run through with a sword. I buried my head into the crook of my arm, not bearing to watch the conflict any longer.

I did not know how long the span of the battle was, but when the sounds of combat began dying away, I raised my head shakily to see the Woad warriors in retreat. A willowy woman with dark hair and delicate features covered by blue dye and splatters of red blood caught my gaze and held it with a fierce look before she too merged into the distant trees. I was deeply shaken. Why had the Woads not killed me when I had lain there, defenceless and in the company of men who fought for Rome? Maybe their quarrel was only with Arthur and his men, or could it be that they did not deserve the reputation the Roman soldiers of my old fort had given them. I was unable to consider the matter and lay still for a few moments to regain some strength in my trembling limbs.

"Isolde? Isolde, are you alright?" Lamorak enquired sympathetically, kneeling down besides me. I nodded, but he chuckled slightly because my appearance was testament to the fact that I was most certainly not feeling well. He helped me to my feet but I immediately saw the strewn corpses of about a dozen Woads and promptly emptied the meagre contents of my stomach. It was some relief to that I had seen none of the knights amongst the dead for that would have been the cause of great guilt to me. Murtagh, having calmed down by now, trotted up and nudged my shoulder impatiently with his nose.

"It is over, Isolde. We are all fine," Dagonet informed me. I closed my eyes in relief as he confirmed my assumption.

"All fine?" Lancelot repeated disbelievingly. "You weren't the one to be injured by an arrow." In alarm, I scanned his body for visible wounds, but seeing none I waited for clarification of some sort.

"It's only a graze to the shoulder. Hardly an _injury,_" Gawain said scornfully. Lancelot gave him a dark glare, but conceded with a licentious grin.

"It might attract some attention at the tavern tomorrow...," Lancelot trailed off suggestively, glancing in my direction to, no doubt observe my reaction. I, however to his disappointment gave none, far too concentrated on mounting Murtagh in advance of the knights.

"Can we leave this place now?" I appealed pleadingly to Arthur.


	7. Chapter 7

Here is the seventh chapter then and I hope you will enjoy it. Thanks for the encouraging reviews of **Shorty6692**, **interfan** and **Vamsi **and more reviews would be _really_ great for this chapter.  
Apologies for the very long gap between chapters; I really am an unreliable updater but I will endeavour to improve.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own King Arthur or the characters from the film. This is for entertainment purposes only.

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**Seven **

**Sanctuary**

I first became aware of a soft, yielding bed beneath my sore body as I burst into consciousness, like a swimmer breaking the water's surface for air. For a moment I simply lay there, unwilling to move but the sluggish opening of my eyes revealed to me a most welcome sight: a small and simple room, containing only the bed I lay upon and a window with raindrops beating a steady pulse against the pane. At the foot of the bed was a dress of rough material, shoes and a steaming bath, the origins of which were unknown to me. However, one thing I instinctively knew was that I was now at Arthur's fort, and safe at last.

I tentatively swung my weary legs over the side of the cot and instantly shivered at the unpleasant cool that greeted me as I stood in merely a shift. I could not recall changing from my travelling garments, nor even how I had arrived at the fort in the first place. I found this rather worrying, but blamed it upon being tired and maybe even having fallen asleep in the latter stages of our journey. I certainly hoped not, but I could not fret about such things in the past. The tempting prospect of a warm bath remained at the forefront of my mind as it had been so long since I had had access to such a delightful luxury. Glancing around to scrutinise the privacy the room granted me, but finding it to my satisfaction, I quickly stripped off and entered the water. I briefly submerged myself entirely in the water to fulfil a childish indulgence before setting about the task of cleaning the accumulated grime from my skin with the scented soap someone had kindly left beside the metal tub. After days of lonely confinement and then an eventful ride through the British wilderness, an ordinary bath became an extravagance I was truly thankful for. I lingered longer than was perhaps necessary in the water but, feeling much refreshed, exited the tub and looked around for means to dry myself with. It became apparent that the thoughtful person who had fetched me a much needed bath, had in fact neglected to accompany it with a towel. I could hardly complain however and used the blanket from my bed to dry my hair and body as best I could.

Having donned the ill-fitting brown dress and worn shoes, I also discovered that the leather pouch Hadrianus had given to me on the dawn of our separation had been left untouched. Almost instantly my cheerful mood vanished to be replaced by a deep sadness and also an undercurrent of anger felt towards those who had betrayed me. I would never forget nor forgive my uncle for the wicked actions he had committed but I hoped that my arrival at Arthur's fort would signal a new chapter in my life - one full of hope. Gently opening the pouch, I checked that the money and more importantly, the envelope were still within and I recalled Hadrianus' command to hand Arthur the letter upon reaching the heavily fortified Roman town. That was something that I decided to do now and perhaps meeting the Sarmatians again would dispel my melancholy frame of mind. Hastily smoothing down my unruly dark tresses, I opened the door and stepped cautiously into the corridor, shutting the door behind me with a resounding click. The hallway was devoid of people but I could see that there were several other rooms, all with their doors uninvitingly shut. Tightening my grip around my pouch, I decided on a whim to follow the corridor to the left where I caught sight of a set of descending stairs. It seemed a good idea to reach the ground floor of the strange building before seeking out the knights as this corridor was entirely empty and furthur explorations may result in losing myself in an unfamiliar building. As I purposefully strode down the steps, the sounds of activity reached my ears, filling me both with nervousness and relief in equal measures. Quickening my pace, I traced the noises to my right where there were two majestic doors that stood slightly ajar and so I approached the imposing doors and knocked politely but firmly.

Silence followed and for several seconds I held my breath, wondering agitatedly if I had once again stumbled unwittingly upon some secret meeting. My heart pounded rapidly as I recalled the trouble that a similar situation had plunged me into at my uncle's fort and I hastily turned to leave in order to find someone else, more willing to assist me, but a voice unexpectedly called out and stopped me in my tracks.

"Who is it?" It sounded like a young boy who seemed almost as apprehensive as I was. Emboldened slightly by the knowledge of part of their identity, I pushed one door open and stepped through the threshold. My gaze instantly alighted on the figures of three children -two boys and a small girl, who all stared up at me with a healthy measure of bravado and guilt as if they were eyeing up some ferocious enemy. We were facing each other in a beautiful, lavish room dominated by a peculiar circular table made of a smooth dark wood upon which were several unlit candlesticks and one of these had been overturned, I presumed by the children during their mischief.

"My name is Isolde," I answered seriously to the eldest boy's question. He looked about ten summers to my reckoning. "I was looking for someone."

"You're that woman dad had to rescue, aren't you?" He commented brashly, looking critically at me and the guilty bluster evaporating from all of them as if I had just been relegated from a possible threat to an unassuming, harmless stranger. The other two exacted identical scrutiny and, although I would not dare admit it, I felt quite discomfited at the confrontation. I had never had much experience with children and had no idea how to act at this meeting. His words also caught me off guard yet I was not leftb to ponder upon his parentage long. "I'm Gilly and this is Six and Seven. Dad's a knight, y'know, he's Bors."

Swallowing my astonishment at the younger children's names and their now obvious resemblance to the loud knight in both character and appearance, I enquired stiffly, "Can you tell me where the knights are now, Gilly?"

"They're at the stables now, preparing to leave. It's just round the corner," Gilly replied, gesturing vaguely with his dirty hands. Suddenly his sister piped up worriedly in a wavering voice,

"You won't tell Ma you saw us here, will you? She'd _kill_ us." The girl was so earnest when she said these words that I was taken aback. Would they really get in such trouble for being in this place and, more importantly to me, would I? I shook my head and gave a brief strained smile in an attempt at reassurance.

"Ma will kill us _now_ if we don't get to the gates in a minute. Come on, Six and Seven," Gilly shouted authoritatively, seizing his siblings by the arms and forcibly dragging them towards the exit at a run. "Thanks ma'am!" I watched as they left, their partially torn and soiled clothes disappearing from sight and shook my head slightly in a mixture of amusement and confusion. However, the boy's words registered properly in my mind and I soon followed after them, being careful to shut the door behind me as I left. He had said they were 'preparing to leave', but had given no more information about the nature of their departure.

I found my way outside and the large stables were nearby as Gilly had suggested. There were unmistakable voices coming from within and so I entered immediately, feeling it would be silly to knock at the door of a stable. Inside, it was like any other stable with rows of stalls, some containing horses, other empty and there ahead of me were the seven Sarmatian knights.

"Isolde! You've awoken already! We thought you would only wake in time to see us return," Galahad quipped good-humoredly, beckoning me over. My shyness had partially returned and I offered only a restrained general greeting. They did not seem to mind and talk and preparations continued around me.

"As you see, we must depart now and so I shall not be granted the pleasure of your company until our return," Lancelot flirted suggestively, already mounted on his beautiful dark horse. I flushed at the meaning of his words and instead returned Dagonet and Lamorak's smiles, finding them altogether more civilised at the current time. Gawain was lazily examining his axe but meet my look with a friendly grin through his wild golden locks and Bors was complaining loudly of his lack of time to spend at the tavern and bemoaning his fate when 'Vanora gets her hands on' him. Tristan wore his flowing, odd garb as usual and was lounging nonchalantly against a stall, chewing another green apple whilst they awaited their leader's arrival. He met my gaze with disconcerting indifference so that I was forced to look away. Moments later Arthur himself arrived with long Excalibur sheathed in his hand and, as he caught sight of me standing there, incongruous with the stable surroundings, he approached me.

"I am afraid we have been called to investigate claims of bandit raids to the south. We may be absent for a few days but I do not think bandit will pose any serious problems to us. You still have the evidence?" I nodded firmly and revealed the envelope from the leather pouch. "Then keep it safe until my return when I shall take it from you and see what can be done for your situation. The fort has received no warning about you from your uncle so you are free to explore, but be wary." I listened attentively to his advice and was heartily relieved to hear that my uncle had not spread his nets so far yet. Arthur swung gracefully onto his white steed and I flattened myself against the walls in preparation for their departure. "Isolde, I also recommend that you get a job here, so that you can support yourself in the future. We will help you as much as we are able though, but you should still visit Hedera, to ask for a job as a maid. I believe they are short of staff at the moment." I stopped myself from frowning ungratefully at the idea which I knew was practical and wise, but I still found the prospect distasteful. It was vital that I could support myself soon as the money Hadrianus had gifted to me would not last very long. I reminded myself that there were many worse jobs for women around the forts... There was also another issue that caused an obstruction if I was to impress this Hedera.

"I have no dress of my own to wear when I seek her out..." I trailed off self-consciously. All the clothes I owned were badly-fitting boy's breeches, tunic, boots and a cloak. None of these were particularly suitable when requesting employment as a maid if that is what I must be.

"Pay a visit to my betrothed then. She is a seamstress in her father's shop and if you tell her I sent you, I am sure she can fix something up for you," Lamorak interjected helpfully and I nodded, thankful that that specific problem could be easily solved.

"We shall leave now, but we will return soon. Farewell, Isolde," Arthur bade me solemnly. I quietly returned his parting words to him and all the Sarmatians along with a stumbling voiced hope that they would all return to the fort unharmed. They chuckled lightly at this and I supposed they were not afraid of the rumoured bandits - they thought they would all come back. With a final glance at me, the knights spurred their horses into motion and cantered from the stables in a noisy clatter of hooves. I watched their individual expressions as they passed and most offered me a comforting smile before disappearing down the street towards the gates.

For a while I stood , looking after the knights in a pensive trance. I had not expected to be deserted almost as soon as I arrived in the unfamiliar fort I was meant to make my new home in. I had presumed and hoped that Dagonet would be there to watch over me as protectively as he had been throughout our journey, and that compassionate Arthur would be there to shield me from any trouble that may befall me. Now none of the knights would be able to help me and I would be utterly alone in this strange, new world. It filled me with dismay and deep disappointment to be left alone so unexpectedly after I had begun to trust the knights. I knew that it would do me no good to mope at their absence all day and so I shyly asked a groom, who introduced himself chilvalrously as Jols, where I might find the seamstress that Lamorak had recommended.

Following his detailed directions, I found myself walking or rather stealing as stealthily as I could through the streets of the fort itself. I attracted plenty of unwanted attention despite, or perhaps because of my precautions but there were no openly hostile glares, only glances of curiousity. I realised with a pleasant jolt that no one knew of my Irish blood here or my strange, quiet ways and that I could assume a new reputation, one that would not have me living eternally in the shadows. There was only the problem of my accent, but perhaps it would not be too noticeable to strangers who knew nothing of my background. Boosted slightly by the confidence of a new identity, I entered the samstress shop as soon as I came upon it, but once I was faced by the owner, a burly middle-aged man, my timidity crept back as my new-found confidence was vanquished.

"I have come to purchase a dress...or actually three, please sir,"I requested, faltering over the details. The man nodded gruffly and shouted something I could not catch through a doorway behind him. I waited nervously, swinging my money purse back and forth until a young blonde woman, perhaps a little older than me, stepped through the doorway to converse with the owner.

"Come with me if you please,"she said politely, adding a welcoming smile. Edging past the intimidating man, I slipped into her workshop which was filled with dresses in various stages of completion and a myriad of different fabrics. I gazed around in wonder for a moment at the beautiful colours and textures, ranging from rich reds to practical greys. "My name is Celia. You said you would like three dresses. Have you any idea of the style or the use of the garments?"

I glanced back at her suddenly. She was a fairly pretty woman with lovely pale green eyes that would have driven me to envy if I had been more vain. "Isolde," I began by introducing myself rather too abruptly. "I would like two simple dresses for indoor work or normal wear and another dress to wear for special occasions." I would have winced at my cool and aloof manner if it were not for the fact that she seemed to not notice it at all. Instead, she showed me some fabrics first for the two day dresses but, as she showed me some, I turned them down for being too plain or too drab with an almost sharp tone that was entirely alien to my usual character. I noticed that she was getting irritated by my cold and discourteously terse responses from the way she pursed her lips and creased her forehead and I felt awful fo my behavious but could not summon myself enough to offer an apology.

"How about this one?" Celia enquired neutrally, holding up a sample of light slate blue material. "It is sturdy enough for work and would suit you well. And this material for the other dress perhaps?" She offered a thicker green swathe of fabric which was a nice natural tone.

"They would do very well, thank you," I agreed awkwardly. She seem to relax in a subtle display of relief and began to take my measurements required to fashion the dresses accurately. I stiffly waited as she measured in stony silence, her annoyance with my attitude now palpable, but I could only blame myself. Once she had finished this task, she asked shortly,

"What material would you like for your final dress?" I browsed through the fabrics as quickly as possible before settling on a patterned dark crimson cloth that caught my eye in particular. Celia seemed to approve of my choice and I decided to leave the finer details of the styling of the gown up to her. I was not sure if I would really need as grand a dress as this, but I considered it a small treat which Hadrianus' bequest would amply cover.

"Would you like payment for the dresses now?" I asked quietly as she busied herself around the workshop, leaving me to stand there not knowing quite what to do. She did not look up from her activities when she replied.

"No. You can pay upon collection of your finished garments, miss. The other seamstress and I can have them completed in two days. Good day." Recognising my curt dismissal, I bade farewell and thanked her twice for her time before all but fleeing the seamstress shop with flaming cheeks. I felt so embarrassed and foolish at my actions. It was as if my behaviour was something totally outside my control and instead I watched myself ruin a chance at friendship, or at the very least, gaining the goodwill of at least one of the citizens of the fort. This was only made worse by the fact that she was betrothed to Lamorak, one of the more amiable knights who had extended a kind of frienship to me during our travels, but now surely that would be withdrawn.

I proceeded quickly through the busy streets, dodging nimbly to avoid a woman carrying a laundry basket and gave a patrol of Roman soldiers a wide berth as they sauntered past. It was not unlike the fort of my uncle with shops, market stalls and a confluence of motley people of all ages and histories. The comforting sounds of daily life washed over me and for once, I felt as if I could blend into the crowd just walking along. It was a strangely liberating feeling and calmed my frayed nerves from my experience earlier that morning somewhat.

Eventually, through trial and error I arrived back at the building I was a temporary resident of and entered into the main hall. Inside, I found that I had stumbled upon a young woman cowering slightly under the wrath of an older, plump woman. It appeared that there had been a spillage and I immediately sympathised with the woman who had dropped the water. I had always been cursed with an ungainly clumsiness and knew that it could attract great trouble from my past experiences. I tried to tactfully avoid the confrontation and slip off up the stairs to my room, but the elderly woman decided to finish her rebuke and addressed me now with a more kindly but still formidable glance.

"Would you be _Isolde_?"She demanded with a heavy, unnatural emphasis on my name. I affirmed that I was indeed Isolde and could not help but worry as to why she wanted me. "Artorius told me that you may require a position as a maid." She raised her eyebrows questioningly and I nodded, biting my lip hard. "Then follow me, girl!"

The woman I guessed was Hedera led me to a small study down a small, dingy hallway which we entered and sat opposite each other - she slouched easily in her seat whilst I, in stark contrast perched edgily on the chair. Hedera crossed her hands intimidatingly and looked me sharply in the eye until I had to glance away nervously.

"So...you wish to be a maid for rthur and the knights then?" This startled me immediately but, remembering my position and purpose, recovered myself and answered her as she expected. "You're young and flighty. How old are you?"

"Twenty-one, ma'am," I answered obediantly, observing my hands in great detail to avoid meeting her gaze.

"Understand that you cannot exploit this position to gain access to the Sarmatians' beds," the woman in charge household affairs said distastefully. I looked horrified at her insinuation about my character and my mouth fell open a little in shock. I made haste to assure her that I had no such intentions but my expression had probably told her as much already and her leathery lips twisted in derisive mirth. "Good. Well, you shall have to do. You may start when the knights return, whenever that may be. You shall have to clean their rooms, do their laundry and whatever else they may require. You may go now." Another curt dismissal but I did not care much and returned hurriedly to my room. I was cheered up by my acceptance into the job, it seemed to have more significance to me than just becoming a maid for the knights. It was as if I had been accepted partly into the fort in a small way, but everyone must start with small beginnings I reminded myself.

I could only pray that Arthur and the knights would return shortly and safely. In the meantime, I would have to remedy my problems alone.


	8. Chapter 8

I am very grateful to **interfan,** **Shorty6692 **and** Elwen of Lorien** for reviewing, but I would love some more feedback so please review! Anyway, in this chapter, as promised there is more interaction with the elusive Tristan and I hope you enjoy reading it.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own King Arthur or any characters from the film. This is for entertainment purposes only.

* * *

**Eight **

**Friendship and Larceny**

Today, I had decided resolutely, was the day to fully redeem myself and start my new life afresh in earnest. Tossing my long cloak over another borrowed dress belonging to the sole other maid, I hastened to leave and only just remembered to seize my weighty purse from the drawer beside my bed. There was still the handsome quantity of coins and the encrypted letter within as I checked it morning and night to ensure it would not go astray. I concluded that on this occasion, the vital evidence would probably be a good deal safer in my room than out on the busy streets of market day, where sly pickpockets were rampant and so I slipped the envelope to the rear of the drawer and left.

I moved speedily through the swarming, babbling crowds of people gathered around the varied market stalls that dominated this particular major street and tried to ignore the symptoms of a throbbing headache that threatened due to the discordant clamour around me. I could now recognise the main features of the fort as I had traversed the length and breadth of the settlement several times the previous day in order to commit the complex labyrinth of alleys, backstreets and roads to memory. However, there were some areas of the town that I would not dare tread for fear of some horrific fate that would surely befall me.

It took a little longer than I had estimated to reach the building where Celia worked because of the diversion of a persistent perfume vendor, who continued to promote his choking and decidely unpleasant product long after I had, in no uncertain terms refused to purchase it. I had never met anyone who wanted so dearly to speak to me, even if it was only for the selfish means of sale. Arriving at the shop without further obstructions, I slipped inside and patiently waited whilst the large owner attempted to pacifiy a vociferously dissatisfied male customer, who complained of the prices. Attracted by the din, Celia emerged from the workshop with needle and thread in hand, but her father only referred her over to serve me. Silently gesturing for me to follow her, she made her way into the workshop and shut the door to lessen the noise of the busy market business and the disgruntled customer.

"Your dresses are finished. I shall fetch them immediately, miss...?" She paused questioningly with eyebrows raised and put down the tools of her trade.

"Isolde," I replied, grimacing noticeably at the memory of our last meeting two days ago. She nodded and walked away to fetch my ordered garments and as I examined my surroundings, I noticed a pregnant red-headed woman standing nearby, closely watching three very young children play happily on the floor.

"Little menaces, these ones," declared the woman wryly, picking up the smallest child as it burst into spontaneous tears. "I'm Vanora. I work at the tavern here." There was only one woman she could be - Bors' lover.

"I am Isolde. I arrived here a few days ago," I said, returning the introduction. She shot me a glance which I put down to either the trace of my Irish accent or, perhaps Bors had informed her of their last mission in passing. Vanora soothed the child in her arms expertly as I would suppose a mother of nine children could and soon Celia returned with three of my dresses laid over her arm. They were perfect: two were simple and practical for daily life and the third was an elegant crimson gown that was a fanciful indulgence of mine as I knew not an occasion for which I could possibly wear such a garment. It had a sweeping neckline and I could tell it would be well fitted and the fabric of the dress was beautiful.

"They are lovely. Thank you," I appraised the seamstress' work truthfully. She could not conceal the look of surprise at my startling change of attitude. Hesitating indecisively for a moment, I gathered the courage to do the right thing, "I am very sorry for the way I acted. It was unacceptable and most rude..."

Celia waved away my apology impatiently, but good-naturedly. "It's fine. You're very new here and it must be quite unsettling to come to a place such as this. Have you got a job yet?"

I nodded, feeling better now I had righted this wrong and taken the steps towards the aim I had set myself. "Yes, I am going to start as a maid for the knights when they return." Vanora laughed warmly and joined our conversation.

"You poor girl. At least you won't need to worry about cleaning Bors' room as he lives with me near the tavern and I can tell you, he's not exactly clean." It was reassuring to talk to these to women, so different from me yet so kind and the fact that we all shared the bond of knowing the Sarmatian knights was also favourable, although they had the benefit of having known them far longer than I had.

Celia invited me to stay a while and I accepted gratefully and tried to overcome my natural timidity. The seamstress began to work nimbly on another of her orders whilst we sat and chatted amicably about simple things in life and the imfamous knights themselves. Both of the women were able to share some amusing stories about their loved ones and their friends, and if I was that type of person, I might have retained some of the worse ones for future use. They imparted their broad knowledge about the fort and its denizens which I absorbed eagerly and I, in turn, told them about myself. I felt immensely cheered by our exchange which they seemed to enjoy just as much as I did and I was very glad to have friends to help me in this new strange place.

Over an hour later, I paid for the garments and departed for my quarters because I was eager to try on the dresses and did not want to impose on Celia's industrious workplace too long where I served only as a distraction, not being able to help sew. Unfortunately, I ran into Hedera on the way to my room as she returned from the market place on a stressful task to stock the building's bare larders. She reminded me sharply of the duties I was to fulfil when I was destined to begin my job and I later suspected she exaggerated the ghastliness of the menial tasks to spitefully horrify me. Her callous words prompted my fervent wishes that none of the knights should be wounded whilst on their mission and I feared I angered her when I absent-mindedly took my leave.

I hummed tunelessly as I paced down the hallway towards my new room and thrust the door open more roughly than I had intended to. This however paled in comparison to my shock as I spotted someone else in the small room, dashing towards the window. They pushed open the windows and, with a moment's hesitation, disappeared from sight as they leapt to the ground below. I pursued them to their escape route and glanced over the sill in the chance that I might catch a glimpse of them and deduce their identity. The man did not turn back as he scurried away and into a dark alley. Trembling uncontrollably, I threw the dresses down onto my bed and fearing the absolute worst, I sprinted the short distance to the sturdy cabinet and wrenched open the drawer. With my heart in my mouth, I felt around inside for the feel of the papery envelope but found nothing, only the rough texture of the wood benath my finger tips. I lowered myself to sit on the edge of my bed and buried my face in my hands in despair, trying to stem the onslaught of tears.

I do not know how long I remained like this, but eventually I collected my thought sufficiently to realise that I could not solve this problem alone. I would have to seek out Vanora and Celia to ask for their advice in place of Arthur's counsel which would have been best, considering the circumstances I was now in the midst of. I was now placed right into the middle of another dilemma: should I risk venturing out into the fort when the thief was now aware of my status as a fugitive from justice of the mighty Roman Empire? I did not dwell long on the prospect of remaining in my room until the knights returned as I was frightened and needed to be with a friend. Quickly putting on the plainest of my new dresses and plaiting my long hair, I left the building cautiously and, with my head down, I made my way to the seamstresses in the hope of locating Celia first. When I entered the shop, her father greeted my gruffly and informed me that Celia had taken a break from her work and had left. I tried to extract her whereabouts from him, but he was unwilling to help or did not know himself and so I assumed that she might have gone to see Vanora at her house near the tavern. Arriving at her modest home, I found that nobody answered my insistent knocks upon the door and grew ever more panicked as time progressed. I thought I could feel the knowing gaze of the thief upon my back and so I decided to give up my search and return to the sullied sanctuary of my room.

So intently was I fixing my eyes upon the ground that I almost collided with a pair of contemptous older women huddled in the centre of the street.

"Sorry," I muttered as they shot me a dark, disapproving glare. My mistake did not seem to have any lasting effect because they swiftly returned to the frivolous task of idly gossipping.

"...have come back already," one of the them whispered conspiritorially. "I heard one of them was _dead_!"

"Really? A Sarmatian knight dead _again_?" I halted immediately as I caught the subject of their garrulous dealings, regardless of the people around me and what they might think of me. I was swamped with several scenarios, one after the other about their words. I could not and did not want to trust the rumour I had just become aware of. I pushed my way roughly to the knights' stables and there, in the square before it were Lamorak and Celia, and Bors and Vanora. I heard Lamorak laugh merrily at something that his beloved had said as he held her in his arms and instantly knew that none of the absent knights had been killed. Bors and Vanora were intermittantly passionately arguing and kissing, but then they led their brood of children away with a contented smile to me from Vanora and Bors yelled a loud, indeterminable greeting. The two knights looked distinctly weary and in dire need of a good wash, but thankfully unharmed. I was indecribably relieved as I made this accurate assumption and Gawain, Galahad and Dagonet also greeted me when they emerged from the stables to pass on towards their private rooms. They did not stop to converse but I made my relief plain to them by smiling more enthusiatically than they had ever seen me do. In fact the only people who I had not yet seen were Arthur, Lancelot and Tristan and it was utterly imperative that I told the commander of the burglar as soon as possible so I made the choice to hunt for them in the stables.

It was fairly quiet inside and Jols moved with efficiency to attend to the tired horses of the knights. I was walking down through the passage between the stalls when a dark horse's head that swung over the side of its stall caught my eye in particular.

"Murtagh!" I cried aloud, feeling happy to see him in comfortable conditions but then also guilty for not coming to see him sooner. He looked very well to my untrained eye and snorted happily as I stroked his neck affectionately. I grinned and silently promised to visit him again once I had sorted out my current predicament and perhaps request a ride; that was if it would be safe for me to go out again.

"He's a good horse, but you need to exercise him," a voice stated from behind me. Predictably, I spun around and came face to face with Tristan, whose approach I had not heard at all. He was eerily quiet.

"Thank you. I know," I murmured, characteristically inarticulate. Deciding to extend my acquaintance to the scout, I asked politely, "How did your mission go?" He shrugged nonchalantly and turned back towards his own horse, which he had meticulously brushed down until the war horse's coat had acquired a wonderful lustre to it. Perturbed and indignant at his lack of response, I watched his movements stubbornly as he stored the saddle and reins away with graceful, economic movements.

"Where is Arthur? And Lancelot?" I asked, adding the flirtatious knight as a hasty afterthought. They were clearly not in the stables with us and must have already departed before I arrived here.

"In their rooms."

"I do not know where Arthur's chamber is," I hinted tentatively, not wishing to provoke him to anger when he so blatantly preferred solitude to my company. All I knew was Arthur's room was somewhere in the Sarmatians' lodgings where I now also lived, but I had little time to spare searching the numerous rooms and that could also be the cause of additional aggravation for many. "Could you possibly tell me exactly where it is?"

Instead of grudgingly divulging the directions as I had anticipated, the enigmatic scout simply picked up his curved sword and elegant bow and strode out of the stables. I instantly knew I was meant to follow him and that he was not just ignoring me, so I rushed to catch up with his quick, even strides. After all, he was a man of action, not of words.

I trailed him almost pitifully all the way to the first floor of the building and to a door in the same corridor as my own room. Tristan predicted that I would be too shy to knock on the door to his intimidating leader's personal rooms, so he did so himself without any fuss. I muttered my gratitude again and glanced up at his striking face which was as unreadable as ever, concealed by both his unkempt dark braided hair and the invisible shield that barred any emotions from surfacing. The only idea of what went on in his head came from the accurately perceptive, wry comments he all too rarely contributed to conversations. He looked askance at me in that strange way of his and I smiled uncomfortably back, but held his gaze as I had not done before.

I looked away when Arthur emerged from his room, looking less daunting without his armour and battle finery on, only some civilian clothes. Tristan nodded imperceptably in greeting to his friend and commander and, now that he had done as I had requested, left to enter a room further down the corridor. I gazed after him, not wishing to be left alone with Arthur when bearing the bad tidings. He stood aside to let me in and I entered the room, knowing that Arthur would be furious at my incapability as any other person would be.

"Are you having any trouble, Isolde? I am sorry we had to leave so soon after your arrival, but it was necessary," explained the green-eyed man politely but the fatigue was evident on his features. and in his posture. I briefly considered putting off my news and telling him at a more suitable time, but I did not think he would appreciate me witholding important information. Besides, I also suspected that sub-conciously, I simply wanted to conceal the news from him for my benefit.

"Well, yes. There was a person...I saw someone leaping from my window this morning and I found that he had stolen the letter from my drawer," I announced, faltering over the words and focusing my eyes on my hands. I heard him sigh heavily and he wiped a hand across his face.

"Meet me in the hall in an hour and we shall discuss this in detail after I have talked to the knights reagrding our mission."

* * *

Just over an hour later, I was sitting aroung the magnificent round table with Arthur and the knights whilst they ate and drank from rich goblets.

"Did you see the thief's face, Isolde?" Arthur asked after sipping some wine. I shook my head shyly, awkward about the high level of interest my story had drawn from the knights.

"Not really. He had his back turned, but he was quite tall and powerfully built..." Even as I spoke, it dawned on me that my description was painfully inadequate. It could refer to countless numbers of the fort's inhabitants. Lancelot voiced the consideration that surely all at the table were thinking,

"That certainly narrows the suspects down," he smirked sarcastically. Not wanting to give up hope entirely, I enquired undauntedly,

"Can I not accuse my uncle without that piece of evidence of his crimes?"

Lamorak shook his head and explained patiently, "If no one knew that he was guilty of these murders and he had covered his tracks as convincingly as both you and Hadrianus had described, then it would be nigh impossible to convict a man of his status without the letter."

"It could be the only proof of his guilt, Isolde," Galahad chipped in pessismistically but I knew that they spoke the most likely truth of the matter.

"You must be extremely careful - only go out of this building when you must and do not talk to any strangers you meet. I think it would be best if you remained here until we can resolve this," advised Arthur wisely and I nodded repentantly. "I will try to track down the thief privately, but I do not hold much hope for I cannot do it openly or others would discover your identity."

We got up to leave at the same time and several of the knights tried to reassure me but nothing would dispell the sick feeling in my stomach. What would become of me now that somebody in this very fort obviously knew of my significance to my uncle?

"Good evening, Isolde," the Romano-British commander said, informing me of how late it had gotten. "And Tristan, can I have a word?"


	9. Chapter 9

Here is the next chapter which contains some more interaction with the knights as I like writing these scenes and felt one would be appropriate at this stage in the story. Please excuse me if this chapter is a little poor in quality, I have been a bit distracted as of late and so extra comments would be used to further edit this chapter and improve subsequent ones. I would very much appreciate any reviews and thanks to **Elwen of Lorien**, **interfan **and **Shorty6692** for reviewing this story once again!

**Disclaimer: **I do not own King Arthur or it characters. This is for entertainment purposes only.

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**Nine**

**Out On the Town **

It took me a long while to reach a satisfactory resolution, but at last I reasoned that necessity drove me to such a decision. I had soon discovered upon arriving back in my room after the shaking meeting that I had left my pouch of money in Celia's shop. I did not think for a moment that either her or her father would take it but someone else might dare to steal the handsome quanitity of coins and I could not allow that to happen. It was all the money I owned and I could not permit my carelessness to be the cause of such a loss that may cost me the independence I had set my sights on. The knights had all left to patronise the fort's busy tavern and so I could not request any assistance from Dagonet or Lamorak as I would have liked to. Cursing my negligence, I threw my hooded cloak over my shoulders and tried to surpress Arthur's sensible words of advice that engendered a cold fear within me at the thought of the perhaps reckless action I was about to undertake. I furtively stepped out into the silent hallway and quietly headed down the creaking stairs and then out into the cool of the outdoors.

There were still people wandering the streets because it was not particularly late yet night was inexorably approaching and this spurred me to quicken my pace. I kept to the edges of the streets and glanced everywhere for any apparently suspicious signs or the mystery thief himself. I was no more than a few minutes from Celia's shop when I spotted a person who alarmed me considerably. He was of a large stature that precisely matched the one I clearly remembered from earlier with a brutish face and he was surepticiously shadowing my path down the street. Knowing that I was near to Vanora's tavern, I hastened in its direction rather than attempt to reach Celia's dwelling which lay slightly further on. I imagined the man's bloodshot, hawkish gaze on me and a cruel smirk upon his lips as he dragged me triumphantly to the Romans' headquaters in this fort. I did not dare look back.

A patrol of Roman soldiers passed me but I could not inform them of the grave danger I was in and they only leered boorishly at me. By now, I was overwhelmed by my helplessness and could not tell if my mind was fooling me into feeling the man's breath on the back of my neck and hearing his heavy footsteps directly behind me. These noises reached a crescendo and I gasped fearfully as the hulking form of the thief drew level with me, but then overtook me without a second glance. The man simply entered the tavern and seated himself unobtrusively at one of the tables which was laden with drowsy drunken men and foaming tankards of ale. I closed my eyes in relief when it eventually struck me that my so called 'pursuer' was entirely innocent and my thoughts had been entirely ridiculous.

"Isolde! There you are!" I heard young Galahad shout and I caught sight of the Sarmatian knights assembled around a table somewhere near the front of the inn. I smiled gladly and gave a restrained wave, still feeling a little stupid but I had no desire to enter such an alien and chaotic place. Lancelot unsteadily rose from his seat, disturbing Gawain's drink as he did so and came outside to me.

"Come inside, Isolde," he encouraged temptingly with a smirk. I hesitated, about to refute his offer but he threw his arm around my waist and escorted me inside the chaotic building without listening to my protests. I struggled initially against such indecorous treatment but when it became apparent that it would do no good, I settled for merely looking outraged. Once we arrived at the knights' table, Lancelot sat down and attempted to drag me down onto his lap but I twisted away indignantly, stumbling away as I did so. "Why do you not succomb to temptation and share my bed tonight, love?" I looked plainly revolted at Lancelot's suggestion and realised that the drink had further diminished what few inihibitions he had. The knights snorted into their drinks at his futile attempts to seduce me and Dagonet kindly made room for me to sit down even though there was little space to spare with so many large men on the bench. I did not want to waste time here but I did not see that it would result in any significant harm and besides, I had to admit that I felt safer when in their company despite Lancelot's overbearing and decidedly futile attentions.

"Would you like something to drink?" Lamorak enquired mildly and I was glad to see that not all the knights were heading rapidly towards drunken oblivion. I shook my head, dubious that there would be anything on offer to my tastes and Bors quickly picked up on this fact.

"Can't hold your ale, girl?" he roared boisterously, raising his own tankard and laughed when I replied that I had not tried it at all. "You havn't lived then!" His loud exclamation drew Vanora over to the table and she looked rather surprised to see me there amongst the knights. I grimaced slightly and shrugged to show that I did not know what I was doing either to which she responded with a hearty laugh.

"More ale!" Galahad called, startling a passing wench by tugging her onto his lap. "Another blasted mission finished for the blasted Romans!" There were scattered cheers from around our table. I hid a smile behind my hand at their somewhat childish revelry and glanced at my surroundings. My senses were bombarded from all angles in this place and it was unpleasant and strange in many ways but the atmosphere inexplicably lightened my previously heavy heart, although the putrid stench of the tavern did little to contribute to this. With a closer look around at their faces, I noticed that neither Arthur nor the scout were present and I assumed that they did not find the lure of drink and women as attractive as their brothers-in-arms. Vanora left to oblige but not before threatening her lover against becoming too senseless and then Gawain leaned towards me so I could hear him above the din.

"So why are you here? I thought you weren't going to come out and least of all to a place like this."

"I needed to go to the seamstress' shop to retrieve the money which I accidently left there earlier but then I was hauled in here," I replied with a shrug to the wild-haired knight. He did not listen most attentively due to the fact that Vanora had returned with a large pitcher of the potent ale and was reluctantly doling out quantities to the knights alongside fierce warnings. The Sarmatians were either used to her threats or too inebriated to care and continued to swig vast amounts from their tankards with their behaviour also becoming increasingly more rowdy.

"Here," Bors bellowed from further down the table and pushed a smaller cup towards me. "Try some of the stuff and prove that you're not so Roman." It was indeed the ale that they were all drinking and despite the smaller portion, I was not prepared or able to consume it because I had never drunk much alcohol before and I also was supposed to commence my job as a maid on the morrow.

"Thank you for the offer, but I cannot. I have to work tomorrow and besides, I do not think I possess the stomach or head for ale," I excused myself, knowing that my explanation would not satisfy the obstinate Bors. However, it was Lancelot who goaded me, no doubt wishing that I would become sufficiently intoxicated to be persuaded to submit to his perverse desires.

"Try a mere sip then, Isolde. It has a most wonderful taste," He said with a mischeivous smirk on his lips and a gleam in his dark eyes. I shook my head stubbornly and pushed the full cup away from me into the very centre of the table. Within moments, Gawain and Bors simutaneously dived for the beaker which messily resulted in half its contents being spilled across the wooden surface and the remainder was won by Gawain, whose reactions had been marginally swifter. He downed the amber liquid in a single large gulp and turned to me with a slightly wavering grin and an unsteady gaze.

"Your loss," He taunted jokingly, teasing more his fellow knight than I and Bors complained loudly of his misfortune again but failed to draw any sympathy from myself or his friends.

"Tristan's arrived," Dagonet's booming voice announced to the table and I followed his tranquil gaze to see the scout easily sauntering towards us through the commotion as if he had carved a path through the people with his elegant blade. He nodded imperceptibly in response to the chorus of greetings he received, but I noticed that Galahad regarded him only with intense distaste and was the only one not to offer any form of salutation. As expected, Tristan did not seem at all troubled by this revelation even though he would have surely picked up on it with his sharp eyes. During my observations, I came to the conclusion that there was not enough space for Tristan to join the knights and I at the table and so I jumped up to grant him my seat. His timely arrival had served as a much appreciated reminder of my true task that evening. Tristan took my seat as I had wished, stretching out his long legs as he did so but did not propose any words of thanks and I knew it foolish of me, but I could not supress the feeling of being hurt by his continual snubs. Perhaps it was not in his nature to be sociable to a naive young woman like me or, more precisely, companionable to anyone at all but it still engendered feelings of resentment within me, which was quite unheard of in my character previously.

"I must leave now," I told the knights and pulled my cloak with renewed tightness around my slim shoulders. "I have tarried here far too long, but I thank you for your company. Goodnight." Whilst I speaking this, I became strangely aware of how much more confident I must have appeared since I was now able to form comprehensible sentences and even decline Lancelot himself and the ale, which was something I would have struggled with in former times in my life. I had not, and it was a tribute to how smoothly I had been able to settle into my new home due to the knights and my two female friends; apart from the utter catastrophe of the stolen letter of course. This was a black mark on my short time at this fort and I could not forget it until the thief had been found or events had been concluded in some less favourable manner.

I carefully weaved my way out of the tavern, pausing to exchange a few amiable words with Vanora, who then assisted me in reaching the exit without being hampered overmuch by the drunken grasps of the soldiers and laymen of the fort. I was annoyed by how much time I had let slip idly by and the sky was now a clear blanket of bright stars upon a deep navy background. Even now, I felt the beginnings of icy anxiety creep back into my consciousness and I hurried in Celia's direction whilst keeping to the centre of the roads to steer clear of the ominous alleys and shadowed doorways that lined the pavement. By the time I had arrived at Celia's door, my hands were numb with the biting cold and I had resorted to putting up my thick hood in an effort to shield my face from the chilly weather. To my misfortune, it took a couple of minutes for any signs of activity to be revealed to me from within the building and then Celia herself unbolted the door and slipped it open a tiny bit, but upon catching sight of my shivering form in the voluminous cloak she promptly stood back to admit me.

"Forgive me for calling at such an hour," I muttered embarrassedly, slipping effortlessly into my old ways again when she began bustling around me. "I am very sorry but I believe I left my purse here earlier."

"You do not have to apologise so fervently, Isolde. It is not that late and I was just preparing some supper for father and I," she admonished lightly, shaking her head in mild exasperation. "Now, where do you think you left it? I have not seen anything..."

"I presume it must be in your workshop where we were talking earlier on," I responded and we both entered the pitch black room with Celia holding a flickering lamp aloft to illuminate our surroundings a little. She rummaged beneath the untidy piles of material but was careful to keep the flame well removed from the flammable cloth as it would cause an inferno in the entire Roman fort if her shop caught fire. I stood back and rubbed my sore hands together to warm my fingers up.

"Ah, here it is!" She exclaimed, looking quite pleased with herself as I thanked her earnestly and gladly took back the leather pouch. "No doubt, I would have never found it had you had delayed coming to fetch it. This room is always disorganized I'm afraid and grows worse daily." We chuckled slightly as we returned to the lit lobby where I planned to take my leave from her. "I would like it very much if you stay for some supper with us. It would warm you adequately for your journey home and Lamorak informs me that I can cook an excellent broth." Her invitation was so alluring to my rather empty stomach as I had only eaten a meagre meal of tough bread and cheese for dinner, scrounged from the barrack's poorly stocked larders.

"If it would not inconvenience you, I would be happy to stay for some of your broth," I admitted, thankful to be offered a meal, whatever its quality and this was another opportunity to spend time with a friend of mine as I feared being a maid for the knights would keep me quite busy enough. My stomach grumbled victoriously and Celia giggled, looking genuinely glad at my acceptance.

"Good. Come upstairs then, the broth should be ready by now." I did not need to be asked twice.

Once the three of us - Celia, her father and I - were comfortably seated around a small table in their living quarters, we started to eat some of the delightfully warming broth Celia had prepared over their cosy fire. It was delicious and I made a note to tell Lamorak of my concurence with his assertation that his beloved was the best cook. After many days of unispiring and somethimes revolting food, I found her tasty and filling broth a pleasant variation from normality. I noticed that her father appeared ill at ease to be sharing this intimate meal with a stranger. Using the harsh lessons I had learnt as a child raised in a Romanesque household, I struck up a mundane coversation,

"I am extrememly pleased with the dresses that I purchased from here, sir and I have heard that many of the citizens here also appreciate your seamstress business." Celia gave an uncomfortable cough and shifted in her seat a little, but her father replied a little testily to my invented claims.

"In fact, we have very little custom in this shop. Most people go to the larger seamstresses' yonder for their clothing." I lowered my gaze in awkwardness and was painfully aware of the echoing clanging of my spoon on my bowl. Evidently realsing that he had been short as a host, Celia's father said, "Thank you very much for your compliments. They are most encouraging. I am pleased to make your acquantaince, Isolde and you may call me Alfred."

"I am pleased to meet you too...Alfred," I retorted politely with some hesitation at calling such a new and older acquaintance by their given name. Again, it was my cursed Roman upbringing interfering - my fatal flaw according to the Sarmatians.

"So, have you spoken to the knights recently?" Enquired Celia curiously as we were finishing up our meal. Alfred rose with a sigh and collected the dishes, apparently not interested by talk of the infamous knights of the fort. I wondered if he was particularly opposed to the prospect of his sole daughter and relative here marrying a foreign warrior and, although I had no personal experience of it myself, I understood that many loving fathers were very protective of their daughters when it came to marriage.

"Thank you for allowing me to spend supper with you," I said to her father in passing before turning back to address the friendly seamstress. "I actually conversed with them directly before coming here. They were all at the tavern where Vanora works."

"I know, Lamorak told me he was meeting them to consume copious amounts of that detestable alcohol they seem to like so much." She wrinkled her nose in disgust and my close experience with the very same drink made me mirror her gesture unconsciously. "Are you telling even held conversation with _Tristan _as well?" She jested lightly at the improbabilitly of such a situation. I bristled defensively at the subject of her words, recalling my still sore feelings towards the enigmatic scout.

"Not really, but I have held conversation with him on previous occasions."

"Indeed?" Celia said with some surprise, raising her eyebrows expressively. "Then you have accomplished a greater feat than I. I have never exchanged more than pleasantries with him during his entire sojourn here, which is nearing fourteen years now I believe. Well, I say 'exchange pleasantries', but it was in truth rather one-sided and on very few occasions."

"Does Lamorak come to visit you very often?" I asked since I was admittedly inquisitive about her relationship with the knight.

"Yes, he visits almost every day," she informed me with an affectionate smile, but leaned forward in a conspirital manner to continue her reply, "But he tries to come when father is busy or out on business because father hasn't quite become accustomed to the concept of his daughter being betrothed to any man, let alone one like Lamorak." It was as I had suspected then, but I was glad to know that both Lamorak and Celia shared such a strong bond to overcome adversity from her kin.

As an easy silence returned to the room when her father came back to sit by the fire, I was reminded of the time by lengthening shadows on the bare walls. "It is very late," I exclaimed, leaping up from my seat. "I think I had best depart now, but I am very grateful for your hospitality tonight." Celia looked out of the window into the inpenetrable darkness worriedly and looked about to protest so I held my ground, my stubborn streak exposed to her. I did not want to be a burden to her and her father, and if I hurried and scrupulously avoided the vicinity of the tavern and hazardous areas of the town, I should reach my room with no problems at all.

"I shall be fine. You need not worry for my sake," I assured her seriously. "I shall not put myself in danger's path, I promise." She pursed her lips tightly - one of her habits, I had noticed and once again glanced at the night's sky where only the stars and slender moon provided a sickly radiance. At last, she visibly relented and led the way downstairs to the door.

"I shall walk you part of the way there, Isolde. I do not like to let you walk home alone at this hour," Celia explained and started to put on a woollen cloak of her own.

"That would leave you to walk back alone and Lamorak would surely not appreciate it if I allowed you to wander the streets at this hour," I joked in retort. "I am grateful for your kind offer, but I can head back myself. Goodnight Celia."

I swiftly left before a debate could ensue and I was aware of her gaze following me down the street until I merged with the darkness and I heard her door shut. My stay at her house had indeed warmed me and I felt a good deal better to have the heavy pouch attached to my belt once again, despite the letter's absence from inside it. I kept to my word and shunned the routes where I believed any scoundrals would lurk at night. I felt a little nervous, though not to the extent I had done earlier on my journey to the tavern. As I neared the Sarmatians' lodgings, I tripped clumsily on a loose stone in the road and fell to the floor, hampered by the vast expanse of my cloak. I cried out in shock rather than pain as my hand was cut by an jagged object I could not identify in the dark. Clutching my wounded hand to my chest, I crossly tried to regain my footing whilst pushing back the lengths of my troublesome garment. However, before I could do this, I felt an arm roughly snake its way around my waist and a sweaty hand cover my mouth. I was instantly hauled into a dark alleyway without even having the chance to scream.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter ten, in which Isolde's attacker will be revealed and her fate will be decided! Anyway, thanks to **interfan,** **Shorty6692 **and **Elwen of Lorien **for your lovely reviews and I would very much appreciate some more reviews for this chapter.  
This may be the last time I update in a little while due to the Christmas festivities, closely followed by exam revision and so whilst I will try to update before January arrives, I may not be able to.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own King Arthur or any characters from the film. This is for entertainment purposes only.

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**Ten **

**Flight of Fear**

Fear shot through my body like a piercing arrow, immobilizing my muscles and freezing my responses in a single, harrowing instant. The clammy hand that smothered my mouth, prevented both noise and breath from passing my lips, and I feared that I would be ruthlessly suffocated by my attacker. The grip around my waist was unfaltering and painfully tight and at first, I was too stunned to retaliate. Once my senses and a natural instinct for self-preservation had returned to me, I thrashed as violently as I could, panicking as I was thrust up against a hard, stone wall. My efforts seemed to be ineffectual against my large, strong attacker and the beating of my fists upon his body did nothing to loosen the grip that restrained me. My assailant's face was shadowed by the dimness in the alleyway and this only added to my terror. I felt my air supply growing sparse in my lungs and ceased my retaliation to try to prise off the person's hand from my mouth and nose. When he realised what he had been doing to me, my attacker jerked his hand back quickly as if he had not intended to asphyxiate me and I took great gasping breaths of cool air before running doggedly towards the open street where the chance of freedom lay. I got no further than three paces as the man's hand seized my shoulder and in one fluid, effortless movement, he pulled me straight back into the wall. I cried out as the back of my head slammed into the hard rock, pitching me into a momentary daze.

"Now listen here," a beautifully smooth voice snarled from in front of me. I braced myself as I became aware of the sensation of cold steel pressed against my throat and awaited whatever fate was in store for me, unable to react as I should have. "I've know things about you, missy. Murderer, thief, convict on the run and so when I came here to check out reports of your presence here, I didn't actually expect to discover you here, _Isolde_," he hissed dangerously. I shuddered as he brought his face within an inch of my own and looked me in the eyes with intense blue eyes that glinted in the moonlight. "But now that I have, I'll do what your uncle asked of me when we arrive back at your old home and what I've done to all those poor souls in the past."

"I am not Isolde. My name is Br…" I invented wildly with my mind racing, but my treacherous accent made my identity even plainer to him, not mentioning the guilt that was probably evident on my face.

"Silence!" He barked, throwing me backwards again so that my body impacted painfully with the wall again. "Don't lie to me, you scrawny bitch. I've had enough trouble already, but I think that Lord Gwrytheyrn will _thank_ me for my troubles when I deliver you to him." It was all over for me. I would be taken back to my uncle and he would surely command my execution on the spot or have this man, his faithful assassin murder me before his very eyes.

"Please, sir, I beg of you," I pleaded piteously as the merciless man hauled me out of the alley without difficulty. "I am innocent…not true…"

"Quiet! Walk normally as well or I'll slip this knife between your ribs," the man commanded, whispering harshly directly into my ear. "I can't have people asking questions." Seeing no alternative, I did as he ordered as best as I was able in my current state and followed his rough shoves that directed me. It did not take long for me to realise that we were headed for the stables and I knew that then my chances of escape would be diminished yet more. I thought desperately to arrive at a solution to my predicament, but no rational options occurred to me and I deeply regretted my decision to refuse Celia's offer, but it was far too late to consider such things now. My head throbbed painfully and I felt oddly faint, causing me to absently wonder if it was bleeding at all. We walked quickly through the streets, passing no one at all as it was too late for ordinary people to go about their business and the knights and other would all still be at the tavern, drinking themselves into a stupor and blissfully ignorant of my dire plight.

As the hulking mass of the stables loomed up ahead of us, I grew reckless in my dread and twisting around suddenly, I struck out fiercely at the man's face with my arm. I felt the blow land instead on his thick neck, but the only important thing was that it granted me precious time. I did not know which way to run to safety, but neither did it seem of overwhelming importance and so I simply sprinted as far away from my dangerous kidnapper as I could. My clothing was not suitable at all for my swift flight, but the rush sent through my body from fear defied my body's usual capabilities and I ran faster and further than I had ever done before in my life. I was never a child for playing games with others in my youth and did not possess the experience of such exertion from this. I heard the man's pounding strides behind me, but it seemed that he was not as quick as I was because I was able to evade capture, despite our initially close proximity. I wanted to scream for aid, to alert someone to my situation although I was not sure that anyone would be willing to assist a poor, helpless girl being pursued by such a powerful, ruthless man.

I knew that I could not run forever and just when I was stretching the distance between my tenacious pursuer and myself, I felt my legs start to shake, the burning in my muscles rise to almost unbearable heights and perspiration was beading on my forehead and body - all telltale signs of my weakness. Although I had been running for less than a couple of minutes, it seemed like an age to me and also, apparently to my attacker whose breathing was even heavier than mine and I imagined him like a beast behind me with great clouds of steam being emitted from his mouth into the cold night air. Raising my trembling hands to my shoulders, I tried to remove my long cloak and as it fell away from me, it became hopelessly entangled around my legs. I tripped over and thudded into the stone road beneath me. My ribs and arms bore the harsh brunt of the pain that followed and I was unable to get up again to flee. The man caught up with me supine form and dragged me over to the edge of the street, not caring about my injuries. His breathing was ragged and wild and I gasped fearfully when he roughly pushed me onto my back, brandishing his knife threateningly over me.

"Y'know what," my attacker whispered, eerily calmly. He leaned over me and the only hint of his anger was the animalistic way in which he bared his ivory teeth. "I don't think Gwrytheyrn really gives a damn if you're dead or alive upon my return, but I know _I_ have a preference."

"You can't kill me.You're a monster!" I cried bitterly and attempted to slap the glimmering blade from his fist. With lightening reflexs that would be vital to a man in his line of work, he caught my wrist and twisted it just a fraction as a warning and a reminder of his power. He smirked slightly and chuckled as if enjoying some personal jest.

"I would have thought that more of a reason for killing you than refraining from doing so," he mocked before visibly hardening himself and focusing on his bloody task at hand. Instincts took over my naturally mild and reticent demeanour and I savagely launched my own counter-attack by throwing myself at him, all the while scratching and lashing out with my fists. However, my efforts were ineffectual because he soon supressed me by backhanding me brutally. I was silenced and subdued instantly by this and, without wasting time, he wiped a rivulet of glistening blood from his chin and quickly made to retrieve his knife from a stone's throw away. I tilted my head over to watch him and saw his head jerk up as if could hear something that I could not. Next, there was a strange thud and the assassin let out a horrible groan before pitching forward head-first onto the ground. In the man's chest was the hilt of a dagger and his magnetic blue eyes gazed up emptily into the heavens. In horror, I pushed myself up and crawled away from the man's body, tears pouring from my eyes now and sobs shaking my entire body. A hand laid itself on my shoulder and I cried out, thinking it to be some new, faceless menace, but instead I was gently lifted to my feet. It was Tristan and I never imagined I would feel such relief to see the man, but there was no denying it. He surveyed my condition critically and, feeling slightly ashamed in his impassive presence, I made an effort to calm my terrified sobs somewhat.

"Thank you. Thank you, Tristan," I whispered gratefully once I had regained coherent speech again. Seeing that I was mostly unharmed except for an ugly mark on my left cheek and a large bruise to the back of my head, he turned and bent down to fetch his dagger from the assassin's back. I shuddered and glanced away when the blade came free and the scout nonchalantly wiped it clean on the man's clothes. He conducted some sort of close examination of the body, but I could not bear to watch for fear that I may be sick.

An alarming thought occurred to me suddenly and I returned my gaze to the scout to see him replacing the deadly blade back into its sheath and slipping something else into another pocket. "What about him? You killed him," I said, not in accusation, but in anxiety. Although he frowned slightly, he knew what I truly meant despite my bad expression of it.

"He's the assassin. No one will mourn him and it will be a warning to your enemies," Tristan stated objectively and I did not enquire how he knew of the man's dishonest occupation. "Let's go."

He quietly led the way through the streets, leaving me to follow him somewhat shakily and I had to trust him wholly because I did not know where I had run to in those harrowing moments. The silence, dark and reprieve from death were peculiarly conduicive to thought and I was left wondering whether it was sheer coincidence that led him to the scene of my attack or if he had been looking out for me and so I asked to sate my troublesome curiosity.

"Arthur told me to follow you if you left. You were in danger," he replied quietly. Then, as if irritated beneath his armour of pride and detachment, he moved to justify himself. "I did not think Celia so stupid as to let you walk alone and so it took unecessary time to track you down." I nodded placatably and could not help but feel a little disappointed by his words for reasons I could not name. Perhaps I did not like his attack on my friend, or that Arthur had not trusted me enough to stay safe. We walked in the still, calming silence that was part of his strange persona and I came to terms with how very close I had come to being unjustly executed. It filled me with deep gratitude to Tristan, and then to Arthur, but also to simply be alive and free.

By the time we had reached our accomodation building, I was weary and my body felt more battered and bruised than I could have imagined possible beforehand. I knew that I would suffer the next morning; the day I was due to begin my humble work here. I shivered against the brisk chill of the night, all too aware of it now that my cloak had been lost somewhere in the fort and we entered the building. Inside it was very quiet, probably due to the fact that the knights were most likely still at the tavern, badgering Vanora or the other women in the tavern. I trailed Tristan upstairs, all the way to my room where he stopped by the door to wait for me to catch up. I stood in front of him a little awkwardly and shifted from one foot to the other, not sure if I should say something. The scout nodded curtly and I quickly smiled for a moment, stopping to wince when my bruised cheek pained me. The scout continued onto his own room with his flowing coat swishing slightly with his graceful movements.

"Good night," I called after him. "And thank you for saving me." He halted suddenly, partially swivelling to face me.

"Good night," he bade me unexpectedly in his rich voice and I stared at his retreating figure for a brief instant before coming to my senses and crossing the threshold into my personal chambers, shaking my head. It was not _unreasonable _for him to say good night, but rather startling all the same. My earlier opinions of him were beginning to alter now. Although I was still not totally at ease in the scout's company, I had a deep respect for his loyalty and of corse, his impeccable aim. That night, my dreams were filled with sharp knives, haggard corpses and a certain scout of disreputable and unpredictable nature.


	11. Chapter 11

I am afraid there is a good deal of talk in this chapter, but it is in contrast with the previous one so I hope you do not mind overmuch. Errors have now been amended and it has been edited in several places. It was a bit rushed and short, but I hope that this will suffice while I start writing a longer, more interesting twelfth chapter. Many thanks to my loyal reviewers for your encouragement! Please review and feel free to make comments or give any constructive criticism on this chapter.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own King Arthur or its characters. This is for entertainment purposes only.

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**Eleven**

**A Day's Duties**

The morning sky was an endless canvas of mottled pastel shades which was not dissimilar to the bruise upon my cheek gained from the previous night's horrors. Restful sleep had been particularly elusive to me as the fear left over from the assassin's attack still lingered in my heart despite my timely rescue. Therefore, I had risen soon after dawn and bathed to cleanse myself, both physically and mentally before I was supposed to commence my duties as a lowly maid in this strange residence. I was certainly in no fine mood and the prospect of even light labour was enough to make my head throb quite painfully in protest.

Hobbling a little from the soreness in my limbs, I softly knocked on Hedera's door – the formidable manager of the Sarmatians' quarters- and awaited her permission to enter. I had not had a lot of time to dwell on this novel occupation by my standards, but I convinced myself that I was lucky enough to have be offered any job due to my lack of practical skills, such as sewing and cooking in a world where a partially literate woman, such as myself would usually get nowhere.

"Come in," commanded a brisk voice from within that I immediately identified as Hedera's. "Isolde, is it not? Today you shall undertake the unproblematic task of collecting all the knights' dirty laundry and then wash it with the water you shall find outside the kitchens. I trust you know how to clean and dry clothes properly?"

"Yes," I slowly replied without conviction, having never washed any garments in the past and the idea of attempting this menial task upon the knights'undoubtedly filthy attire was not appealing to me in the slightest. I would have to learn fast, but how hard could it really be?

"Use that basket over there to collect the items of clothing," she instructed with a wave of her hand. I eyed the enormous basket with a little resentment, but I nevertheless rose to pick up the unwieldy mass of woven reeds. "Also, get that hideous bruise sorted out or covered up at the very least. It looks horrible." With those parting orders, I was hustled out into the hallway to begin my first duties for the morning.

I ascended the stairs ever so slowly, my cumbersome burden greatly irritating me in my already tenuous mood and made my way down the narrow corridor towards the knights' personal rooms. After Hedera's comment about the ugly mark on my cheek, I was mindful not to arouse any concern in the Sarmatians lest I was forced to relive last night's events countless times over, and so I shook my long, dark hair over the offending bruise on my left cheek. It occurred to me that it may look strange, perhaps even as if I was imitating Tristan himself, but I deemed it obligatory in the circumstance at the cost of giving a rather odd impression.

Stopping in front of the first door of the hallway, I clasped the basket against one hip and awkwardly knocked heavily on the door so that it resounded loudly in the confined empty space. I waited from some time and then tapped on the door again in case the occupant was still sleeping the morning away. Instead of the response I desired, the door adjacent to the one I was apprehensively standing before swung open and Lamorak emerged, straightening his tunic.

"No one sleeps in there," he told me shortly and then winced a little at the sound of his own voice. He was obviously suffering from a severe headache in retribution for their previous night's surfeit of the potent ale. "Not anymore, at least." It was the chambers of one of the slain knights and I stepped away from it involuntarily as I had always found the possessions of those long dead eerily macabre.

"Do you have any clothes that require washing?" I asked quietly after a taut moment of silence in which he seemed to be solemnly reminiscing over his fallen friend.

"Your first task as a maid in this place?" he guessed with a not entirely sympathetic grin and I confirmed this, not concealing my aversion to the fact. "I shall just fetch them for you now. Lancelot is in the next room by the way. You shall have to knock especially noisily to gain any kind of response from him." He retreated after a conspiratorial wink, still grinning and I abandoned the basket to continue onto Lancelot's room, doing precisely as Lamorak had suggested. Almost instantly, I heard a stream of vehement curses permeate the door and worried that I had perhaps been over-vigorous in my knocking.

"Who the devil is it?" snapped Lancelot as he whipped open the door, in a voice that was quite outside the disposition I had witnessed beforehand. Catching sight of me cowering in front of him, he softened and sighed resignedly. "Was it really necessary to break down the door to wake me? You did not seem so keen to enter my company yesterday."

"Sorry," I whispered and realised that Lamorak had been conducting some form of punishment upon his comrade through I, his unsuspecting and dutiful vassal. "I just needed your laundry if you want it cleaned." He nodded and turned back into his darkened to do as I had requested. I heard footsteps coming from both directions and saw that Lamorak was placing a neat bundle of his laundry into the basket helpfully and I made sure to thank him for doing so, and Dagonet approached me from his own room. We greeted each other warmly as I was fond of the placid, quiet knight and he seemed to care for my safety. I then repeated my request to him and I was surprised and very grateful when he began to awaken the remaining knights, instructing the weary Galahad and Gawain to gather their clothes for me.

A few minutes later, I had a vast mound of assorted garments in the basket, some of which stank foully and I reluctantly heaved the heavy container up again, eager to be on my way to ridding the clothes of their vile odour.

"Isolde," Gawain called to much protest from his hung-over friends. "Tristan always rises early and today is no exception. I am sure he would much appreciate having his things washed too though." His reminder was well-intended as I had completely forgotten the absence of the scout throughout the morning's farce.

"Need I collect his attire myself? I do not know what needs cleaning," I trailed off anxiously. Galahad chuckled despite his tender condition.

"Nor do any of us. We do not enter his room," he remarked and I was not surprised by the scout's secrecy, even amongst his oldest and closest companions. Galahad continued ominously, "He might kill us if we tried." My heart sunk and my extreme disinclination to enter the mysterious Sarmatian's lair did not go unnoticed by the others and was the cause of much amusement. It took me a while to figure out that he was only jesting, but I still did not think that an intruder's fate would be much better if they were happened upon by the rightful occupant himself. Defiantly shaking my hair from my face, I headed over to the room that Gawain indicated, only to be halted by Dagonet's gentle, but insistent hand on my arm. I saw him and Lancelot staring almost suspiciously at my face and I was alarmed at first as I did not understand their looks.

"What is that mark on your face, Isolde?" Dagonet asked softly, but with a definite edge to his voice which drew the gazes of all present directly towards me. I shifted uncomfortably as I knew the bruise itself was not in question, but the source was far more relevant.

"Last night, a man attacked me on my way home," I informed them haltingly. They frowned in outraged concern and I was filled with gratitude to have such caring friends and protectors in them. "He was a friend of my uncle's, the assassin, but Tristan stopped him and saved me." I said the last part a little darkly as if my powerful relative had always been known to frequently associate with all of the worst miscreants in the Empire, which was rather untrue or at least to my somewhat limited knowledge. I shivered to think that such terrible men may have entered the very house I lived in to plot equally awful deeds with Gwrtheyrn.

"That is fortunate, but I doubt Tristan ever allows anything to happen by sheer chance," Lamorak quipped with a wry smile to lighten the mood. I quickly shrugged my tresses back over the left side of my face to cover the unfortunately noticeable blemish and avoid yet more concern and aggravating comments from any passer-by I might come across.I bade them have a good day and left to try and uncover Tristan's laundry. The knights left in a subdued manner which was most likely due to their various ailments that had arisen due to their foolish indulgence in alcohol.

Slipping into the room, I found that it was neat and sparse with the main features being a bed, a closed trunk and the most eye-catching feature of all: a set of full Sarmatian battle dress. It was outlandish in appearance and so very different to the Romans bright, regimented uniform that I had to take a closer, admiring look. Although I had no experience of warfare or even minor skirmishes, I could envisage Tristan garbed in the armour, disposing of all foes in his path with efficient strokes of his curved blade. It was truly an awesome image in my mind and I spent some considerable moments simply standing there.

"What are you doing here?" The voice startled me so immensely as I had again not heard the scout's approach and I knew that Tristan would hardly be pleased to discover me invading his privacy by snooping around his room. I turned to face him guiltily, repentantly fixing my gaze to the floor because I could not gather the courage to face those dark, inscrutable eyes of his. I glanced briefly at him after a tense silence and was upset to see him still looming over me expectantly with his unnerving gaze as effective as it ever was at causing me unease.

"I am very sorry to intrude, but you were away and I needed to collect your clothes to wash because Hedera said to..." I spoke quickly, rushing through my explanation so that it must have been very difficult to discern any sense from it. Difficulty, however, was no obstacle for Tristan and although he gave no direct indication that he had understood me, he opened the trunk and removed some clothes which he then placed inside the basket I held. "Thank you," I said relievedly, glad that he not displayed any anger towards me. I dreaded a day when he would do so, but I thought it a very unlikely scenario, considering the subject. "Your armour is very impressive and an unusual design, I think," I commented in an effort to make amends. He cast a glance in its direction and I knew he would struggle or not bother to reply to such a bland statement.

"It is effective and necessary," he rejoined shortly and these were obviously more important aspects of the armour to a warrior, I realised. I looked down at the laundry basket, suddenly feeling very foolish and immature in his company.

"Is Zhiva well?" I asked politely, recalling another of his favourite things in life. He went to the window and let out a curious whistling sound which made me jump visibly. I took a few steps closer to see better what he was doing and I heard the hawk first before she swooped majestically into view. Her broad wings curved as she slowed to perch upon Tristan's extended wrist and he rewarded her with gently stroking the handsome feathers on her chest. He brought her fully inside the small room, something that neither she nor I liked very much and we once again stood face-to-face, her beady gaze focused on me sharply.

"She is well." I nodded with a stiff smile as I remembered the sneaky peck she had bestowed on me on my journey here. I did not think that the fierce creature was particularly fond of me and I did not desire a repeat of the last time we encountered each other.

"I can see that," I replied cautiously and tried to seem less cowardly by taking a slight step towards them. I did not want to be defeated by this bird or her master, I thought obstinately and so, on a slightly reckless impulse, I raised my hand, pausing to request permission from her master with a meaningful look. Tristan only shrugged once he caught my meaning and so I tentatively reached out to touch Zhiva's chest lightly with my finger and mirroring the scout's actions, I stroked her. I marvelled at both the softness of her feathers and her admirable tolerance as she did not lash out immediately, but I did not want to push my luck and appear silly, so I soon withdrew my hand protectively. Smiling genuinely at my successful action, I thanked Tristan who then allowed his faithful hawk to fly off into the wild expanses beyond the fortress. The weight of the basket digging into my body reminded me of Hedera's instructions and I imagined her wrath at finding me wasting the morning away in frivolous conversations with the knights I was meant to serve. "I have got to go and wash these garments now. Thank you and good day." I turned to leave, struggling under the huge quantity of filthy clothes I had been given by six of the knights.

"Arthur needs to discuss the letter in the hall after you have finished," Tristan informed me passingly as I was leaving. I turned in amazement that he had not informed me sooner of this momentous news.

"But how did he get the letter? I forgot! It was still on the assassin, on his corpse," I gasped. How could I have neglected to remember such an important thing? It was maybe the only thing that would clear my name and prevent my death at the hands of my uncle and the law.

"I removed it and gave it to him," Tristan told me patiently. I let out the breath I was holding in relief and set off once again with the laundry to begin my unpleasant duty. I suppose I was lucky not to have to wash Bors' clothes as well. That _would_ be a difficult task.


	12. Chapter 12

Whilst there is little Tristan interaction in this chapter (Apologies), the plot needed a firm push forward and so he will feature more in the follow up, I promise. I hope I develop the other knights some more in this chapter and keep the characterisations as accurate as possible. It is also shorter than I had presumed beforehand, but still slightly longer than the last as I had to divide the content up suitably to end each chapter.  
**Elwen of Lorien** and **Hidden Relevance** have my sincerest thanks for reviewing! Please read and leave a review.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own King Arthur or its characters. This is for entertainment purposes only.

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**Chapter Twelve**

**Dangerous Games**

With my arms immersed up to my elbows in cold water, I frantically scrubbed at the sleeve of a soiled tunic with a stiff brush. My new work dress was sodden in several places where the water had sloshed over the brim and it was also covered in fine dust as I was kneeling on the grimy floor of the pantry to carry out this highly tedious duty. The only advantage of performing this task was that it allowed me to focus solely upon it and not be troubled by worrisome deliberations on my bleak future – a now rare gift since these strange happenings had been set in motion, some time ago.

Although I had no past experience of washing garments of any description, I quickly discovered that several minutes laborious scrubbing and plenty of water usually eliminated the worst of stains. Not so with this particular mark however and so after doing my best, I simply draped it over the wall outside to dry alongside the other finished articles. There was nothing to be proud of in carrying out jobs like this and I admit I did not take the care required of me. I hummed tunelessly as I rinsed, but stopped suddenly when Hedera unexpectedly arrived to fastidiously check up on my progress. Her mouth twisted in a thin line of displeasure and I bit my lip anxiously when she disappeared to inspect the drying clothes.

"They will not dry quickly enough when left in this screwed up fashion on the wall," she snapped shrilly, brandishing one of the offending items when she stormed back inside. "Nor have you wrung the water from the clothes correctly either. I cannot have this shoddy attitude when executing the most rudimentary of tasks. You shall go out into the courtyard now and dry those garments properly."

"Yes, ma'am," I whispered, bowing my head to avoid her ferocious glare. I exaggeratedly squeezed out the water from the large breeches I was currently attending to and in the process, accidentally splashed copious amounts of water onto the floor tiles. Whipping the hem of her dress away from the puddle that had unfortunately accumulated at her feet, Hedera sent me an unambiguous warning glance and swept off without another word of scolding. No doubt to attend to a more worthy venture, I thought acrimoniously and then berated myself for the childish behaviour that I had just demonstrated. It was not right or becoming for a woman in my precarious position to act that way when I was living on her compassion as my employer. Spending part of my youth in an uncompromising Romanesque household, my late mother had had to quickly educate me of my new place in an obviously different society from the simple Irish life I was used to. I do not think that I was ever able to fully adjust and my taciturn and sometimes unconventional conduct may have been symptoms of that. I swiftly finished cleaning the remaining clothes left in the basket, paying more attention to detail than I had been prior to Hedera's check. I had no desire to incur her wrath for the second time that day. Carefully piling them over my bare arm, I gladly stepped out into the waxing sunshine that finally reached the secluded courtyard that lay behind the building.

It had undeniably been a pleasant retreat in bygone days, but its days of glory had most certainly passed. The rays of sunlight illuminated an innumerable selection of scented herbs and overgrown, withering plants that wrestled for ultimate supremacy in a badly-maintained border. Many of the roughly-hewn slate flagstones that I stood on were lightly coated in dark moss and vibrant lichen. The stone bench that was perfectly situated in the shade of the tall building's walls would have been a delightful place to sit on warm summer evenings and relax as was fitting for that most leisurely season. However it had seemingly not been used nor been the cause of pleasure for a long time and the proud Sarmatians probably did not like such an obviously Roman place anyway. It was a shame, but in some odd way it still called to me and I was filled with a sense of possessive ownership.

I was by no standards a passionate gardener, but I had, in my youth helped tend to Gwrytheyrn's own garden when boredom compelled me to find some pursuit to engage me during the long days. I could only vaguely recall the lined face of the aging woman who loved to cultivate every shrub and delicate flower there. I never ventured there in my latter years at the fort as I was too inclined to stay in the house where I would delve into the magical world of books and daydreaming. The beginnings of an idea took hold in my head and plans for the little haven began to unfold as I examined the neglected courtyard. I firmly made up my mind to pay another visit to the fearsome Hedera later, but Arthur's meeting would have to take priority. I did not know if I was late already and so I hastily arranged the garments on the wall, adhering to the woman's precise demands this time before returning indoors to dry myself in order to appear presentable.

A short while later, I was looking a little more respectable after my efforts and had been shyly directed to the impressive double doors of the meeting hall by my equally withdrawn fellow maid. I crossed the threshold and let the solid oaken door fall shut behind me as I was greeted by the sight of the charming circular table for the second time. This time, Arthur and all the knights had assembled at various intervals around its circumference and their jovial chatter gradually subsided at my arrival.

"Isolde," Arthur said as he rose to greet me. His vibrant green eyes were full of easily perceptible concern and I was embarrassed to be the cause of such commotion. "Are you well? I was informed of last night's incidents."

"I am, thank you," I replied unfalteringly, but still lingered near the doorway. I was quite intimidated by the full congregation here and had only expected Arthur to be present, but the Sarmatian knights seemed to have developed an irreversible interest in my recent troubles and trials.

"We had expected you a little earlier, but it is no matter for concern," Arthur excused me kindly and beckoned me to sit beside him, which I did. "I have here the letter that was recovered last night. I have looked over it briefly, but I have not yet had the opportunity to attempt a translation of it. There are other things, of great importance that we must discuss in relation to your case." I had been staring at the fateful parchment he had brought forth from his shirt, but now my gaze swung quickly back to his serious face in alarm. I had not been prepared for any other matters to be aired here and thought that now we were in possession of the evidence again, proceedings would soon begin in earnest against the pitiless villains my uncle had presided over.

"Lord Gwrytheyrn and his associates," interposed Lamorak considerately as he saw my confusion. We were not allowed to continue our conference because an interruption in the form of two male servants bearing trays of goblets and pitchers entered.

"Wine!" exclaimed Bors happily as he was handed a brimming cup first and foremost due to his boisterous insistence. By and large, the men seemed to have recovered from their earlier, painful ailments and appeared more than eager to suffer drinking a little wine at shortly past midday. I was then offered a goblet after Arthur and, after a pause accepted it with a word of gratitude. Serious conversation halted for a while despite having only just begun in earnest whilst everyone enjoyed some of the rich-tasting wine. I had to admit that it was very refreshing and it was of a similar quality to that which Lord Gwrytheyrn entertained his lesser guests. It was also further proof of how highly these respected warriors were held as I had not heard of ordinary soldiers being granted such luxuries, but I knew that these little benefits would not compare to the injustices they had suffered when taken from their homeland. It was not a fair exchange.

My thoughts always seemed to come back to my uncle, whatever form they started as and I had to admit that I was frightened of him. He had already proven that he was willing to brutally sacrifice his blood relative and former ward to retain the precarious façade of Roman decency, but not only myself, others too would suffer and die if he was not brought to justice soon. Subjecting myself to these depressing considerations, I failed to notice Dagonet's approach.

"Here, I have prepared this for your bruise," he stated and handed me a small bottle of an unfamiliar salve. "It should help the bruise go down if applied morning and evening for a few days."

"You are a healer as well as a warrior?" I enquired, a little surprised that he was accomplished in both highly skilled fields. Healing was something that had always interested me in a distant way as it was my mother's own profession. He replied in the affirmative and Lamorak leaned over to share some insight on the quiet and caring knight.

"Yes, and more than a few times we have owed our continued survival to his expertise." Dagonet walked away as if a little embarrassed by the compliments he was receiving. I sipped the red wine again and was somewhat relaxed by its gentle, lulling effects on the mind. I no longer turned to dark thoughts and examined the knights around me, some with fondness and others solely with respect. I caught Tristan's eye with a smile, feeling more audacious than I would have usually and he raised an eyebrow at me in a succinct, unspoken query. I pushed the half-empty second goblet of wine away from me with a start, completely unaware that I had imbibed such a large quantity in so short a time. I fervently blamed this on my nervousness and vowed to be more careful next time I was offered wine lest I lose my inhibitations to more embarrassing ends.

Arthur rose to put a stop to the casual talking and the growing suspicion that he had ordered the wine with the intention to put me at ease before informing me of the darker aspects that threatened me now dawned on me slowly. I frowned at this and hoped that my assumptions were wrong, but as we settled down, I was unwillingly proved correct.

"Gwrytheyrn will strive even harder to hunt you down; now that he knows that his assassin did not succeed in returning you to him. You are still in great danger, but Tristan has dealt a great blow to your uncle and I believe he will not be able to carry on with his clandestine reign of terror much longer," said the commander reassuringly. This went some way to reducing the dull hopelessness I felt at the beginning of his speech and I sat a little easier for it.

"That is, if action is taken quickly and ruthlessly," Lancelot interjected, perhaps seeing my face lit up with a premature hope. The seriousness of his words was alien to me and I was reminded that there were many sides to this darkly flirtatious knight. I was not sure if I preferred his typically light but irritating character or this, brutally real side to him.

Arthur once again took up talking and I felt swamped beneath this wave of not at all heartening information. "Lord Gwrytheyrn will hesitate to reveal his full strength to find you as he will fear that you will be provoked into revealing the evidence to other authorities. It is likely that he thinks you have not done so already because he would expect immediate action to be taken against him. It is my guess that he will be act with all the cunning he possesses to retrieve you quietly." I swallowed nervously and had to clear my throat repeatedly before I could respond.

"Do you think he will send another assassin?" I would have been scornful of the fearful tremor to my voice if I had been in any other situation, but keeping up façades was not a priority of my now. The expressions on the knights' faces spoke more volumes than hollow words could have done and I tried to nod as if I was able to calmly accept the news, but I did not have Dagonet's quiet acquiescence, or Vanora's fierce courage, or Tristan's wonderfully unfathomable face, which currently observed the scene closely.

"There is still a chance," retained Arthur firmly and gestured to the solution to my problems: the ivory encrypted parchment. I believe that we were all surprised to varying degrees when the scout spoke next, commanding everyone's attention,

"He has everything to lose if the Romans uncover his secret, but he probably believes that you would shy from this action as you yourself have a lot to lose." Indeed I did – Gwrytheyrn and I were both locked in a tense game and both playing for our lives. I may have scored the first point with Tristan's help, but the assassin would not be his last offensive move. I stared resolutely at the letter on the table before me and, with a sheer determination fuelled by a fierce will for self-preservation, I leaned over and seized the piece of evidence that would secure victory. The knights seemed to look at me with greater respect, but my determination not to submit was born of bravery. However, those few amongst them who believed that fallacy, I would not correct as I would be glad to be held in even marginally higher esteem than my previous behaviour was worthy of. I knew that the others would understand my motives, having witnessed many desperate people in their lives as warriors.

"All you have to do is translate the utter nonsense in the letter and then persuade the Romans to take up your cause against one of their most loyal allies," Gawain added lightly and I almost smiled at the folly of the huge test that lay before me.

"With all the help that we can grant her," Dagonet retorted staunchly, but mildly all the same. Bors scoffed loudly and did not deign to speak his thoughts and only swigged the wine from his golden goblet as casually as if he was chatting in the tavern. I was not sure if he particularly liked me, but from what I had learnt of him, Bors was an honourable man and many of his more insolent speeches and actions were simply bluster.

"Arthur and Isolde both read that script, don't you?" Galahad asked inquiringly of Arthur, pointing towards the letter clenched in my hand. He hesitated for a brief moment and even looked uncomfortable.

"I am afraid that I did not pay as much attention as I should have done to my more academic studies," he admitted slowly. The knights exchanged glances at this revelation to all of us. "I remember a little, but was more focused on training and Pelagius' teachings in my childhood."

"I read Greek fairly fluently," I said uncertainly as I had held hopes that Arthur would lend plenty of assistance to me. "I will probably be able to transcribe it into Latin before it can be presented as evidence. Hadrianus educated me on some subjects when I was younger." I stopped abruptly and said no more as I still felt the pain of Hadrianus' fate.

"There we are then!" Lamorak exclaimed with a grin. "Isolde shall translate the Greek to see what secrets it contains and then we shall hand it over to the highest Roman we can find." It all sounded so comfortingly simple when he put it this way and I was inclined to believe this rather than the arduous truth.

"Even with all the help we can give, I fear it may not be enough," said Arthur grimly. On that ominous note, the unofficial meeting broke up and the knights left for the training fields to practise their supreme combat skills. Lamorak paused to invite me to come and watch in an attempt to improve my humour, but somehow I did not feel up to watching them expertly attack and defend. I was fighting a battle of my own and had only just realised the true scale of the two sides' disparity.


	13. Chapter 13

Sorry for my long absence due to some irritating technical problems with my computer. Thanks to my reviewers **interfan**, **dferveiro**, **Elwen of Lorien** and **Shorty6692**. I hope you enjoy this chapter and I thought it was about time to show the beginnings of a relationship between Tristan and Isolde since it is chapter thirteen. Please leave a review and tell me what you think.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own King Arthur or its characters. This is for entertainment purposes only.

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**Chapter Thirteen  
****A Refuge ****from Demons**

My mind was ablaze with numerous, clamorous thoughts, all battling for attention. I had left the hall of the round table less than an hour ago with the incriminating letter slipped safely inside the leather pouch. I had undertook to carry it with me throughout this dangerous and turbulent time in my life and after returning to the courtyard to ensure that the knights' garments were well on their way to drying, I struck a path to the parlour where I had been directed to by my counterpart maid in enquiry pertaining to my employer's whereabouts.

The door had been left thrown open and so I forwent the formality of knocking and entered the little room when I saw that Hedera was indeed there. She looked up at the sound of my footfalls, but quickly glanced back down at the table before her disinterestedly. I waited in polite, apprehensive silence for her sharp, berating prying relating to my seeming disappearance from my duty, but it did not come.

"Forgive me for my absence, ma'am, Arthur wished to see me," I explained as the older woman lifted a basket from the floor with a muted grunt. It contained wholesome albeit unappetising items of food that would not be amiss on a journey: oatcakes, a hefty wedge of cheese, sticks of dried meat and four glossy apples. My stomach twisted in trepidation as my thoughts conspired against me to present a scenario that I prayed was in actual fact, a fallacy.

"I am aware of that, Isolde, but it is no excuse for idleness and so you must work still. I shall have the other girl attend to the washing and return them to their respective owners since you have no skill with that at all, but you shall sweep and scrub the entrance hall until it is _spotless_. I will not stand for a repeat of this morning," she warned me sternly with an accusing finger directed towards me fleetingly. I nodded earnestly, eager to receive her favour if that was humanly possible, but I also wished to ask her two burning questions that had fought their way to the tip of my tongue.

Thinking it wise to request permission first, I voiced cautiously, "May I ask you something?" Hedera stopped in the middle of removing the apples from the basket and grated out exasperatedly,

"What do you want? Speak swiftly as we both have things that need doing!"

"It is about that courtyard actually," I began ineloquently, gesturing randomly behind me. "I was wondering if I would be able to tend to it…" I was not wholly unperceptive and I could generally tell when something was entirely futile and I recognised this as such an occasion.

"That courtyard is rarely ever used and maid girls are the ones who spend most of the time out there. Besides, I cannot have you wasting valuable time planting pretty flowers and suchlike when you still provide so inadequate a service through your hapless incapability," she answered with her characteristic viciousness that I had yet to become accustomed to. She must have had some measure of compassion within her because, when she saw how deflated I appeared despite my best efforts at grateful bravado, she relented somewhat, "When you have mastered the tasks I set you to my satisfaction, I may reconsider."

Encouraged by her unexpected lenience, I anxiously queried, "Are the knights departing tomorrow? I saw the food you bought, but I did not think they would be summoned away so soon."

"Do you genuinely believe that this quantity of food would suffice for eight strong men traveling on horseback?" Hedera demanded incredulously and I saw that the amount would not please Bors alone for a trip of more than a day or two. "This is for them to eat when they train tomorrow and it may stretch to the day after that if we are fortunate. Now get on with your duties unless you wish to be working until dawn arrives."

* * *

The candle stump I had salvaged from the supply rooms had burned very low and the wax had collected in an imbalanced pile at the base of the chipped candlestick. It was the only source of light in my bedroom as nightfall had descended over Britain and the flame flickered frantically as the breath left my lips in a heavy sigh. I had run out of oil in my lamp earlier and had wrongly thought it easier to use a candle instead of replenishing the fuel. 

Arthur had provided me with some fine parchment and a beautiful feather quill of his own with which to transcribe the evidence so that it was fit to be shown to a Roman man of power. So far I had made little progress and had only written four lines of the translation in spidery handwriting despite having poured over the letter for well over an hour. I had discerned that the man my uncle written to and the same who had attempted to take my life the previous night was known as 'Aster'. He must have been descended from a Greek line or surprisingly well-educated for such a brutish thug to be able to communicate with greater fluency than I in Greek. My uncle began the letter by congratulating him on the success of his previous 'commission' – a more chilling and sinister opening than I could have imagined, now knowing the details behind the courteous words. He then continued to write of his worries about an unspecified witness that he feared may eventually come to know of the covert business they carried out and also mentioning the apparent lack of enthusiasm from the magistrate that I immediately knew to be Hadrianus. The former person mentioned proved no trouble to identify either and I could not suppress the chill that crept along my spine after realising that my uncle had hinted that my removal might too prove necessary.

The foreign script seemed to morph and mutate when the fickle light danced across the letter as if taunting me. It was frustrating to achieve so little, but I had discovered that, like Arthur, my grasp on the Mediterranean language was not as secure as I would have liked. Licking my parched lips, I hunched over the parchment, holding the quill delicately between my fingers to avoid aggravating the blisters I had acquired from scrubbing the floors to sparkling perfection. My lips moved soundlessly as I read my uncle's letter in a fragmented style and I slowly formed the words in my head before mulling over them critically to search for their meaning. Suddenly, a section of the letter slotted neatly into place and I hastily committed the translated phrase to paper in the fear that it might escape my memory at any moment in my tiredness. I detailed a short part that stated a name that I recognised dimly from my past home and the location of his house in a sparse style that was coldly professional and unlike the earlier tone of his congratulatory, even sinisterly amiable opening. This was surely an unfortunate victim of my uncle and his associates' criminal activities and it led me to wonder how many names had been duly noted down in this fashion to be sent to Aster. Would my own name have been included in a letter like this eventually if my uncle had not decided to adopt a different approach to the dispatch of his relative. I now had no doubt that this would be a laborious and disturbing process that would require all my natural tenacity, intelligence and nerves. Laying down the quill again, I began to compare my uncle's safeguarded letter to my own shaky translation and I was so absorbed in the task that I lost awareness of the passing of time. I was halted with a start only when the candle stuttered into darkness and I was left at the table without a glimpse of light to guide myself safely to my bed. Nevertheless, I shuffled together the pieces of evidence, relying on the touch of my fingertips and then I took quite some time trying to open my leather purse and stow the letter inside for safekeeping. I would not risk being careless with it again after the terrifying experience with my uncle's assassin last night. Whilst I was cautiously edging across the floor of my chamber with my arms outstretched like I was a woman robbed of sight, I realised that my eyes were adjusting gradually to the gloom and the silhouettes of my sparse furniture were becoming visible. Feeling a little foolish, I hastened to unlace the ties of my working dress and, slipping out of it after fumbling awkwardly, I swiftly got beneath the covers of my cot to keep the coolness of my room away.

Night was now my least favourite time of the day as they had recently become just as eventful as my most hectic daylight hours in retrospect, but nights still held the mantle of enveloping blackness that threw everything into a ghastly light. It was a childish fancy perhaps, but still frightening none the less. I tossed fitfully but it did not take long for me to fall asleep.

_There was the pounding of many feet and harsh panting behind me and when I turned, I saw a pack of unnaturally large wolves following me with razor-sharp canines glistening and fearsome gazes. I was running before I knew it, but not fast enough to escape their snapping jaws as we ran through the forest as if I was a terrified fawn – and prey. I rounded a corner in the path and stopped dead, regardless of the demonic predators hounding me for before me was a man of piercing pale green eyes and all the power and judgment of god himself. It was Lord Gwytheyrn._

I awoke with my breathing as swift and loud as the wolves in my dream and I gulped in air feverishly, unable to stop myself. The cold night air soon brought me back to the tangible world where, I reminded myself in a frantic mantra, I was safe. With the raw adrenaline still coursing through my veins as it had done last night, I had neither the inclination nor the ability to return to sleep with such immediacy and I feared that the object of my nightmare would recur persistently if I did not calm my frayed nerves beforehand.

It was unfortunate that I had used up the fuel of my oil lamp because light is always the friend of the frightened and I knew very well from my own experience that I was no exception to this. Sighing heavily for the second time since dusk had fallen, I swung my legs agilely over the side of my cot so my feet came into contact with the bare floor and I rose, instantly regretting the loss of Hadrianus' thick cloak that had most probably been picked up by a lucky passer-by. Instead, I chose to search for my second working dress from the rougher feel of the fabric and this proved to be a greater trial than I had anticipated considering my heavy reliance on sight. It took some time before I was able to put it on and then the laces were tied with all the dexterity I could muster, but I had no need to lace it perfectly as I would be quick to fetch more oil from the store rooms and I was unlikely to encounter the knights anyway, who had departed for the tavern earlier. I did not believe they had returned yet or else they would have surely woken me with the clumsiness that came with having imbibed a good deal more ale and wine than advisable. I myself had recently been an example of how drink could alter a person even only a little, much to my embarrassment in hindsight.

Now ready, I stepped into the hallway, unconventionally barefoot and with the clay lamp static in my grip and I was comforted to find that the hall was lit at regular, far intervals, but nevertheless they emitted a reassuring albeit dim glow. As I approached the flight of stairs that led to the entrance hall, I heard the uneven gait of people heading in my direction and the distinctly female giggle that followed had me wishing that I had chosen a better time. I drew back into a corner discreetly to allow the drunken couple undisturbed passage down the hallway but I could not resist snatching an inquisitive glance to discern their identity first. It was, quite obviously Lancelot and a shapely woman I had never laid eyes on before. I pursed my lips in silent, seething disapproval at the evidence of his well-deserved notoriety at the fort. I waited thankfully unseen whilst Lancelot guided the blonde, unresisting woman in the inevitable direction of his private room with a beguiling arm wrapped around her waist in seductive supplication. Once they had passed from sight, I padded softly down the steps, shaking my head at Lancelot's antics. He had been so bluntly informative at our meeting in the morning, unnerving me quite a lot, but now he was back to his strange charming ways. He was one of the Sarmatian enigmas.

It struck me that it could not be as late as I had previously guessed as Vanora ensured that the knights left the tavern before the small hours of the morning and Lancelot had blatantly left without any coercion on Vanora's part.

Reaching the store room without further obstructions, I entered with a wall lamp held aloft to illuminate the recesses and corners of the cramped room. The flagstones sent chills up my entire body as I headed towards the tall amphora at the rear of the room that contained the oil I required. I knew that the vessel was too heavy for me to lift carefully and so I was forced to dip my lamp inside, getting my hand covered unpleasantly with the substance in the process. Then I transferred the flame from one lamp to its unlit counterpart and smiled in satisfaction as a tongue of fire blossomed in my lamp. I could now return to my room with the placating protection of light and so I departed from the store room, being mindful to leave it exactly as I had found it in case Hedera was angered by my nighttime escapade.

Emerging into the entrance hall, I found myself to be no less unwilling to carry myself up to bed yet and so I bowed to the temptation of retreating to the courtyard garden for a short while. There would be no better place to ponder and relax than in the failing beauty of the secluded area. I was cheered to find that the door was unbolted and so I passed through it, pulling the shoulder of my dress back from where it had partially slipped off. The beckoning peace of the garden was as effective as I had expected in soothing my mind although I still felt the edges of unwavering anxiety at the back of mind and I wandered to and fro, ignoring the bitter cool of the night's air as best as I could. After a few minutes, I sat down on the stone bench and placed the lamp beside me as a sort of guard to ward of attack from within myself and warn against any from outside. I buried my hands in the folds of my skirt and regarded my surroundings in the dim, fickle light the lamp cast. It appeared almost like an ethereal ruin of bygone splendour and not dissimilar to how I imagined the abandoned villas to the Woad-ridden north would now be.

A chance glance to my right revealed a familiar, but wholly unexpected presence.

"Tristan!" I cried breathlessly in as much a reproach as I was willing to give to the scout. He did not seem penitent to have once again startled me, but he did saunter a little out of the deeper shadow of the wall for my benefit. I would have to grow accustomed to his unnerving habit of appearing with ghostly stealth. "I did not know you came here. Do you visit often?" I asked curiously. Hedera had said hardly anyone ever came here except from maids, but did she mean Tristan was the exception? I wondered if he too was drawn to the solitude and peace the courtyard brought to me.

"Occasionally," he obliged curtly. "I came now because I saw you." His tone was objective and if his words had been uttered by any other man I might had considered them to have some sort of romantic implication, but with Tristan that was just too bizarre and certainly not true.

"Why was it necessary to do that?" I enquired neutrally with a little puzzlement evident from my questioning gaze.

"I have been charged to take an interest n your safety," the scout reminded me without malice as he leant elegantly against a wall. I attempted to conceal a scowl of displeasure, although at what I was not entirely sure, by permitting my unruly hair to form a curtain over my countenance. I did not look at Tristan when I next spoke,

"Of course. I had forgotten that." I presumed he heard the bitter edge to my voice and this only increased my confusion and irritation with myself. "I simply came out to think for a while, but it is of no account. I think I shall return to my room now." Tristan shrugged and his braids fell forward over his face too. A lopsided smile spread across my lips and it only widened when I realised that he must think me very strange for being bitter and sullen one moment, then grinning seemingly without cause the next. I could not help it because there was something undeniably captivating about his unequalled indifference and peculiar ways, not to mention his outlandish appearance. I stood, taking the oil lamp with me and headed towards the entrance to the household. Tristan eyed my spontaneous smile, bare feet and careless apparel, but did not deign to make a comment.

I opened the door and then waited patiently as I thought it would be impolite to leave the Sarmatian in complete darkness despite whatever inhuman scouting skills he may possess. He understood my intention and joined me as I led the way back indoors.

Unbeknownst to him, _he_ was my guardian and his voice a lullaby to my troubled heart. He was my refuge from demons and I knew that I would now sleep soundly for what remained of the night.


	14. Chapter 14

In a few chapters time I plan to write further about the problem of Isolde's murderous uncle which I hope will bring some excitement to the story. This chapter is partially light interlude with some important points as well. I hope you enjoyed Easter and please excuse me for neglecting my obligation to update over that time. This chapter is dedicated to my wonderful reviewers: **interfan**, **Kaelin**,**VickySticky**,**Elwen Of Lorien**,** Hidden Relevance** and** Shorty6692.** I am astounded by the response I am receiving for my first story here and am thankful for those who take the time to read and share your comments! Please continue to give me your thoughts and any constructive criticisms pr suggestions.  
**Disclaimer: **I do not own King Arthur or its characters. This is for entertainment purposes only.

* * *

**Chapter ****Fourteen**

**Horses For Courses**

I set to work the next morning imbued with focused energy that permitted few negative thoughts and undoubtedly impressed my employer more than my earlier performance as a maid had. It was not that I was yet accustomed to the arduous routines and menial work, but rather that I was motivated by a desire to attain respect. As to whom I wished to attain this new respect from, I was currently determined to remain ambivalent since I did not like the way my thoughts wandered when pondering this question.

Hedera had charged me firstly to prepare a sufficient supply of provisions for the knights when they went to the training fields later in the day which I thought was slightly unnecessary as they were given hearty meals each day otherwise and were no great distance from nearby kitchens or the market if their hunger did bother them. Hedera had sternly reprimanded me on both my habitual ignorance and my unsolicited questioning of instructions as she informed me that I did not understand how very strenuous combat was, even when done in practice. Needless to say, I had refrained from pointing out my scepticism that she had ever engaged in a sword fight herself.

I carried out this uncomplicated task in the cool confines of the parlour, wrapping the cheese, fruit, bread and meat in clean white linen before placing it in a basket for the knights. It was an agreeable contrast to the onerous scrubbing of the entrance hall floors yesterday evening which I guessed would probably be soiled later on when the Sarmatians returned from their fighting exercises. It was a marvel the maids who had served me among others in my uncle's household could bear the futility and repetitions of their underrated work. However, it was probable that they, like myself had little choice in the matter and it was a preferable way to support themselves to the limited other possibilities open to women in the fort. The Roman way of life that had been adopted throughout the reaches of the empire had benefited few, and until recently I had been included, entirely through chance and misfortune, among that elite number.

Once I had completed this, I had to hurry to assist the other maid to deliver breakfast from the cramped, dingy kitchens to Arthur and his knights in the majestic great hall where they began their day together. We spoke not a word to each other, being both taciturn and not inclined to geniality and the laden dishes of food were placed in front of the hungry knights. I was greeted by the majority of them cheerfully which I endeavoured to return in equal measure as I went around the circular table, laying out their plates. I was mildly surprised to see that Bors was sitting beside Dagonet as I thought he spent this morning meal with his ever-expanding family. I took the opportunity to ask Gawain and Galahad about this discreetly and they answered with a gleeful relish that one would expect from playful children.

"Yesterday, Bors got so drunk and bawdy at the tavern that Vanora refused to let him sleep at their home," explained Galahad.

"She made quite a commotion," Gawain interjected solemnly but the effect was spoiled by his wide grin. "Which isn't that unusual for her when Bors does something… well, _Bors-like_. He had to come and spend the night in his old room unless he wanted to obey Vanora's instructions and sleep in the stables." It was apparent that Vanora's temper was extreme and well-renowned in the fort and I doubted very much that even the bravest, most audacious Roman soldiers would wish to cross her when in a rage. I certainly hoped I would never be on the receiving end of ire and I felt a pang of sympathy for the knight when he gruffly thanked me as I passed around the table.

"Isolde, have you made any significant progress with the letter?" Arthur asked, breaking away from a conversation with Lancelot. I shrugged, unsure of what would be classed as a significant development in my case. "Have you uncovered anything at all incriminating in the translation? Even if it is not wholly finished, I could present it to the fort's official in order to provoke an arrest or search for more evidence."

Welcoming this piece of news, I described what I had uncovered so far: "I believe so. Gwytheyrn names a man I think was his last victim as far as I knew – the one he framed me for. He also gives evidence of a magistrate's disinclined involvement and I am convinced that he will provide hints at the very least to the identity of his other accomplice later on as it seemed he had no qualms about trusting his assassin at all," I recited hurriedly and the paused so that I could compose myself before delivering the part of the translation that affected me most. "My uncle implies that he may require another murder of a troublesome obstacle and I believe the person is me." Arthur had been listening intently and when I had concluded my reply, he reassured me kindly,

"If the named victim was indeed murdered, then I think that will prove sufficient enough to cause an investigation. I will take the letter and notes now if you have them with you as I have time after this meal in which to try to find the name of your uncle's accomplice included in the letter." He smiled at me as I handed him the sheets of paper just as soon as the words had left his mouth and I could not help but return the gesture after his unanticipated announcement. Feeling as if a weight had been lifted from me, I passed on to the last person I had yet to provide a plate to and bit my lip anxiously when I saw who I had neglected for so long as I chatted to the others.

"Sorry, Tristan, I did not intend to take such a long time," I apologised instantly. The scout did not visibly seemed perturbed by my belated service and I offered a shy smile as he looked up that came easily since I was in very good humour and recalled my awareness of his status in my mind from late the previous night. I lingered embarrassedly for a few seconds too long without uttering anything as I had now carried out Hedera's orders and did not know quite what to say. "I hope you have a good training session today," I wished him abruptly and immediately walked away to leave, but was halted by Lamorak calling out to me.

"Some of us are going for a short ride before heading to the training grounds. Would you like to come? Your horse would welcome the exercise." I hesitated, considering if Hedera would permit it and whether I would want to display my woeful incompetence as a rider all over again in their presence.

"I would like that very much, thank you," I responded eventually. I intended to ask permission straight away and I did not think she would object to a short break from duties. Murtagh would also appreciate the freedom and I had promised to ride him as soon as possible so there would be little sense in denying such a kind invitation. The knights could doubtlessly have no fun by themselves as they would not be burdened with the responsibility of a lesser rider in their group.

"Excellent," Lamorak exclaimed in his irresistibly amiable way. "Meet us in the stables in about an hour or so." I consented and headed towards the exit again. As I was just passing through the door to the entrance hall, I was stopped involuntarily by mortification when Bors made a teasing comment to his fellow knight:

"It seems to me, Tristan that Isolde has taken a bit of a fancy to you." I coloured instantaneously in embarrassment, a scarlet blush rising to my cheeks and before I could hurry away from the room, Lancelot added to my humiliation.

"She is a rather pretty girl, don't you agree?" A pointed cough cut off any further comments about my absurd partiality and I presumed that Bors and Lancelot had thought I was already out of earshot as they were not deliberately cruel and knew very well that I was sensitive. I hurried out of the room, comforted only by the notion that Tristan had not deigned to share his opinions.

* * *

Exactly an hour later, I was standing in the stables alone and patiently awaiting the arrival of my riding companions. I was garbed in the borrowed masculine clothes I had first come to this fort in and I also had meticulously braided my long hair to keep it from obstructing my vision as it was irritatingly wont to do during periods of activity. I had been gratified to find that Hedera had dismissed me for the rest of the day because there was apparently little that was meaningful left to do anyway and so I had had time to dress carefully in the ill-fitting garments, adjusting them for practicality and look. I had begun to be reconciled to the idea of being a lowly servant of sorts as although the work was, at times very hard, there were definitely perks to the job that I could not automatically discount.

I had then come to the stables prematurely to ensure that I had enough time to saddle up my horse but my worries proved generally unfounded as I had managed to do everything to my satisfaction before the hours changed. Murtagh moved restively in his stall, eager to get out into the fresh air and open expanses outside the walls of the fort and I approached him to attempt to soothe him down. I had a natural fondness for animals of all sorts, including horses but I had always maintained a residue of anxiety about their sheer physical power that had prevented me from absolute confidence when mounted.

"There you are!" Lamorak cried as he entered the stables. He was accompanied by Gawain, Galahad and Lancelot who all started to attend to their horses with expert fluidity and enviable rapidity. "Already prepared to leave too? I hope we did not keep you waiting."

"Not at all," I hastened to say, unwilling to reveal my insecurities about this horse ride. No one mentioned anything about their lighthearted mockery of me earlier and I was cheered to think that the minor incident would not be mentioned or dwelt upon again. I preferred to consider Arthur's resolve to contribute to and then present the letter to an official. Perhaps my name would soon be cleared and my uncle's true nature unveiled for the scrutiny of the law.

"What are you thinking about that makes you smile so?" Lancelot enquired with a knowing smirk. My expression darkened into a scowl at once and I atypically felt that I could not allow this query to go unrectified lest I wish to suffer similar gibes for the foreseeable future.

"My freedom," I retorted sharply, turning away to attend to Murtagh again, who butted his velvety nose against my chest impatiently. Lancelot made no reply to this and we were silent for a short while.

"Are we ready to leave now?" Galahad asked, leading his snowy white horse out of its stall. He had apparently missed Lancelot's and my exchange which was something to be thankful for as I felt somewhat foolish for rising so immaturely to the bait. The rest of us assented and I led my own horse out into the open space in order to mount him without causing too much havoc in the stables themselves. The knights, as I had fully anticipated took no time at all to swing themselves into the saddles but I was different, requiring no less than three attempts before I was seated properly on Murtagh's back. I let the knights lead the way out of the town, past the crowds of admiring children who gazed curiously at the incongruous young woman tailing their revered heroes. Once we had been waved through the magnificent gates of the fort and were on the green expanse of land outside, Lamorak halted so that I could catch up and ride alongside him.

"You look a bit nervous, Isolde. Relax a little and I guarantee you'll enjoy it," he assured me with a smile before briefly prompting me to correct the few obvious errors in my riding posture. Noticing that we lagged behind the other three, I urged Murtagh into a trot and thankfully he indulged me.

It was, I admitted to the Sarmatian knights, invigorating to be out of the fort in the cool breeze from the north and admiring the natural beauty of the landscape, disrupted only by the lofty structure of Hadrian's Wall that now lay sprawling in the distance. One could quite rapidly forget that there were wild forests and undulating hills so close to the towns when spending time incarcerated within the high stone walls of a Roman fortress. The wilderness of northern Britain signaled a kind of freedom to me and symbolic of what I hoped to receive when my uncle was brought to justice.

"Is anyone here game for a race?" Galahad challenged in high, boisterous spirits and as much as I liked him, I made plain that I was not eager to partake. One by one Lancelot, Gawain and Lamorak all stated their readiness for the challenge he had issued. They, as one rounded on me as if it was all some grand conspiracy and goaded, cajoled and blackmailed me relentlessly until I saw no option other than to cave in.

"I will try, but I am sure I will fall off if Murtagh exceeds a canter," I claimed in a last-ditch effort to slip out of the race. This too had no effect of note and simply Gawain laid down the rules to our small group:

"Does everyone see that tree stump by the stream over there?" There were murmurs of affirmation from the listeners as we all looked towards the small, bare tree stump that appeared perilously close to the bank of a meandering stream. I craned my neck and tried to judge the distance to it – it seemed an awfully long way away but I reasoned that my apprehension about the race had extended it to some degree. "We ride _around_that and the victor is the first to arrive back here, which shall be marked by this," he said, accurately throwing one of his throwing axes to land quivering in the earth. I twitched Murtagh backwards slightly, startled by the motion but then grinned at my own detriment as the others laughed freely. There was something undeniably exciting at the prospect of galloping spontaneously across the fields and the foregone conclusion of losing did not bother half as much as the risk that I might tumble off Murtagh's back. However, today was not the day to be bound by my pervasive prudence and therefore I clumsily edged Murtagh into the starting line, inducing the knights to deftly make way for myself and my horse.

"Three... two… one… Go!" Galahad yelled to begin the race. The horses leapt forward, even Murtagh doing as commanded and I delighted in the sensation of the wind whipping my face and it felt almost as if I was airborne once the speed had picked up. I had never ridden this swiftly previously and the knights still outstripped me, but not by a vast margin for which I was pleased. I hunkered down low in the saddle, mirroring the stances of the other competitors and dared to urge my steed faster still into what was surely a sturdy gallop. Murtagh gained on Gawain's and Lamorak's horses steadily, who were also pursuing the leaders of the pack in vain. Lancelot and Galahad put a distance between them and the rest of us in seemingly no time at all and despite my lighter weight advantage, they were clearly the best riders out of the group present. We approached the stump and I was distressed to realise that the passage between the stump and stream was narrow enough to grant only a single horse through safely at a time. It was therefore imperative that I exceed the knights beside me if I was to have any chance of honour at all in this race. Neither Lamorak nor Gawain were willing to allow me to gain ground and it was the former who expertly guided his chestnut mount around the obstacle first. I thought that I was in position to pass around the pivotal point next but when I was slacking the pace slightly for the turn, Gawain impelled his horse to press the advantage and also go round the stump. Furthermore, he held the benefit of being on the inner side and so I let out a shriek as Murtagh was diverted into the stream. Water splashed up onto my shins as my youthful dark brown horse broke out into a renewed canter to head towards the finishing line. I stroked his neck appreciatively and tried to remain on his back in order to not waste his efforts through my incompetence. Glancing ahead, I could see all four of the riders in front of me and vowed that we could at least attempt to rival Gawain's place, especially since he had performed so sneaky a maneuver in order to speed ahead. We succeeded in decreasing his lead on us, but in the end, Murtagh and I crossed the place of Gawain's axe last although only half a length behind him. It was this continuation of the wild pace until the very finish that made stopping significantly problematic and as I endeavoured to check Murtagh's speed, I lost my concentration on remaining seated and, quite literally, flew off his back.

"Isolde!" Galahad and Lamorak shouted in anxious unison, dismounting and hurrying over to my prostrate form. I sat up before the knights reached me, wincing more from embarrassment than any genuine pain. I had certainly been winded on impact and it took a few moments before I regained my breath. "You are alright!"

"I am perfectly fine," I said airily, standing up gingerly. I surveyed the damage quickly and found mere grazes and bruises on my body which was very fortunate considering the velocity at which we had been traveling. Murtagh pranced in what I liked to imagine was a slightly sheepish fashion, his reins in Gawain's grasp.

"You race well," he congratulated me, handing my horse's reins back to me. I smiled, thanking him and ensuring he did not feel at all to blame in my tumble. "But you fall purely spectacularly." I pretended to level a threatening glare at him and averted my attention in jest when he merely expressed amusement at my feeble effort.

"I did not see who won," I explained to Lancelot as we mounted our horses again in preparation to return to the fort. I hoped he would forgive my excessively severe rebuttal to an innocent gibe. He wordlessly lifted me up by the waist when I struggled more than usual to climb into the saddle before following suit.

"It is a shame you did not witness it," he told me as we began to head back. "Of course, it was I who was the victor, then Galahad, Lamorak and Gawain, not overlooking your valiant efforts. I freely admit that I expected you to do far worse than you did."

"As did I," I replied mildly.

Once we had arrived back at the stables and carried out all the necessary administrations for our horses, I bade them all goodbye as I knew they were planning on meeting their fellow warriors at the fighting grounds.

"Why don't you come and watch us if Hedera has given you leave for today?" Galahad asked as an afterthought. I considered his invitation thoroughly since I found their distinctive fighting techniques a feast for the eyes but had only seen these legendary knights in combat once before and in circumstances where I could not really appreciate them completely.

"That reminds me!" Lamorak exclaimed, striking his forehead with fingers theatrically. "Celia specifically told me to inform you that she and Vanora wish to see you next time you are free. You could join them for lunch instead if you like." Thus it was decided that I would pay a visit to my friends whose company I would enjoy whilst I had the opportunity.

Having next changed into more appropriate clothing, I strolled in the direction of Vanora's home on the outskirts of the settlement, waving with fabricated insouciance at Tristan, Bors and Dagonet as I went by them on the street.


	15. Chapter 15

An extra long chapter for your (I hope) enjoyment and to make up for long intervals between chapters! Comments and reviews of this chapter most appreciated.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own King Arthur or its characters. This is for entertainment purposes only.

* * *

**Chapter ****Fifteen**

**Bittersweet Celebration**

There was a definite air of volatility amongst the Sarmatian knights and their commander. It had been two uneventful days since the reckless riding contest I had partaken in and since I had called upon Vanora and Celia at the barmaid's chaotic family home. Today however was a momentous occasion for the knights and one worthy of a celebratory dinner for all at Bors' and Vanora's abode later in the evening. Fourteen years to the day had passed since the Sarmatians had arrived in Britain to begin their hereditary service to the Roman Empire. The annual commemoration was a time of remembrance and sorrow for those who had not survived their service, but equally importantly, a cause for optimism – another year gone from their long obligatory conscription on foreign soil. I had learnt all of this from Dagonet and had come to better appreciate the knights' attitudes a little more because of it.

Having fulfilled my day's work requirements with only some token criticisms from Hedera, I rushed to get organized for the dinner. I was admittedly delighted to be invited to the very special affair as it was a sign of my true integration into the lives of the knights and their beloved. After conferring carefully with Celia and Vanora, I had been coerced into donning the red dress the seamstress had so masterfully made for me. The garment was the only fanciful addition to my somewhat diminutive wardrobe, especially compared to the assortment of elegant gowns I had previously worn at my uncle's court, but I still felt unduly apprehensive at the prospect of dining with the knights dressed so formally.

I got ready with meticulous attention to detail, spending almost an hour finalizing my hairstyle as I tried several different fashionable styles before settling on pinning it back minimally with the inexpensive brooch I had brought a couple of hours earlier. I did not have the poise to pull off anything too extraordinary at the dinner party and so was reasonably contented with my appearance. I only lamented the minor fact that I had neglected to purchase accessories or a cloak to complement my outfit but such a lack of foresight could not be rectified at this short notice. I opened the chest at the foot of my cot to add the remainder of my day's pay to the coins I had already saved there. Although, my wage was modest at best, I was provided with included board and food which would certainly tax even more weighty purses normally. I had no feasible idea how Bors and Vanora managed to finance the feeding and upkeep of their brood without resorting to desperate means. Besides, I would freely substitute all the prosperity of my uncle's grandiose dwelling for the life I had now adopted.

Once I had made final amendments and adjusted some of the finer details, I left the building alone and began to make my way through the fort with a notable spring in my step that had been absent of late. I attracted some inquisitive looks from those who passed me in the streets, but I was still a relatively new face and my business was not yet the common knowledge of my neighbours.

"Lady," a mellow voice called from behind me. It was a pleasant and unpretentious voice and although I started at its close proximity, I had no reason to believe that I was the subject of his address until I was flanked smartly by two soldiers. The one who had spoken was of tall, lithe stature with a placid expression that would not have been at all menacing if not for his intimidating regalia. I was forced to stop in my tracks when the other overtook me to block my passage and so I had no choice but to comply with the soldiers' demands, at least superficially. Nerves built up within me steadily and I knew this was not likely to be purely innocent questioning regarding an unconnected event I may have witnessed. I myself was in trouble here, although their calm, serene manner did not belie this. "We should like to speak to you for a moment, lady. Would you please come with us?" His last sentence was obviously not intended as a mere request and I searched for a way out of my predicament, my heart racing and eyes wide, darting to and fro. Nothing was immediately forthcoming to my aid.

"I am expected for dinner with…" I began haughtily, attempting to slip out of my human cordon. I had not held high hopes for that plan of action and was proved right when the soldier grabbed my wrist in a tight grip to prevent me from going on to my evening engagement. A glimpse past the man's broad shoulder told me that their discreet actions had not drawn a crowd which discomfited me greatly. If there were no witnesses, these men would be free to take me wherever they pleased and in any manner without the possibility of reproach.

"What's your name, lady?" asked the sole speaker of the two with a hint of impatience creeping into his tone now.

"Iso…Octavia Calpurnia," I declared, adopting my best imitation of a truly native accent. I could hardly believe my stupidity in almost blurting out my real name in a situation like this. There was a lingering pause and I dared hope that I may have fooled them even momentarily.

"We would greatly appreciate your cooperation in accompanying us to see our commander, Iso…," he stopped theatrically, mocking my slip of the tongue drolly. "Do pardon me, _Octavia Calpurnia_." His companion laughed dutifully and I could barely sustain my conceited pretense any longer for a sickening trepidation could not be suppressed upon a mere whim. I perhaps would have pleaded with them if I had been able, demeaning though it would be, but my mouth had grown dry and articulate speech evaded me as I was marched through the streets. I did not think trying to run would serve me any good so I walked beside the soldiers as meekly as a dutiful slave. We shortly came to an imposing edifice that was attached to the surrounding wall and I was urged inside unrelentingly despite my beseeching look to confront their senior officer. It would certainly not be a meeting to relish or an acquaintance to maintain, I thought dryly as the soldier rapped sharply upon a particular door. We were bade enter and I quelled my shaking hands that were an outward admission of guilt to any observant person.

The office walls were decorated with images of victorious battles, the Roman army standard the most ubiquitous feature and all the available surfaces were covered by intricate maps and charts. It was undoubtedly the room of a dedicated Roman officer – I had seen few in my time from obligatory visits but the resemblance was uncanny.

"I did not know you were in the habit of bringing young ladies back to my office, soldier. Explain yourselves with haste," a middle-aged man demanded sternly from behind his desk. His appearance was of a hard-bitten campaigner with his dark hair silvering at the temples and a deeply-lined visage. The soldiers executed salutes with due respect and, this time both contributing, they gave details of my discovery and how they believed me to be 'the fugitive'. After they had delivered their account and I cowered fearfully between my accusers, the commander leant back in his chair with a pensive sigh. He had regarded me intently throughout and I felt sure that he was well aware of my true identity.

"Are you confident that she is Isolde?" he asked the soldiers and the mention of my name seemed like a damning proclamation of a death sentence to me. They nodded one more assertively than the other but the two of them, nevertheless attested to it. The officer turned next to me, "Is this true? Are you indeed Isolde, an escaped murderer from Lord Gwytheyrn's custody?"

"No." The single word slipped from between my lips without my conscious consent – a lie that came effortlessly to me in a crisis.

"There, you heard it yourself. She is quite clearly not this Isolde at all; the names bear no resemblance and this lady's accent is unequivocally of this region whilst I was informed of an Irish lilt to the fugitive's. You waste my time and I have little patience for this kind of waywardness in my ranks. Let Octavia Calpurnia leave as she wishes," he prattled dismissively. I could scarcely comprehend the words he spoke once it had dawned that he was rejecting the soldier's accurate claims. Such a bizarre twist of fortune was so unexpected that I could not have realistically hoped for an outcome like this, but it went to show that optimism still had its place in my life. The officer was patently entirely artless and devoid of any intelligence to be so easily deceived.

The young soldier was determined not to give up on something he had been so utterly convinced of - a noble if slightly foolish course of action in the army. He too seemed to be just as incredulous as I was and I assumed that a rich reward fuelled his rebelliousness. "But sir, she could be lying about her name and her accent…" He trailed off, searching in vain for ways to describe the pitiful attempt I had made to blend in. Acting had never been a particular forte of mine and it was something I would prefer to leave to the professionals. "It's not right, sir. She matches the description that you briefed us with earlier as well. Everything fits, sir!"

"There are many young women with dark hair and grey eyes in Britain and probably the rest of the empire for that matter," the commander pointed out coolly. "I will not tolerate this insubordination and I do not like to hear such baseless accusations of a young lady's integrity. You may leave and be thankful you have not received punishment for this regrettable incident." I breathed a sigh of relief when the two soldiers retreated, mumbling mutinously under their breath and was audacious enough to thank the official for his assistance. However, he met my gaze coldly after I had done this in a manner that he had not previously displayed.

"I have my eye on you, have no doubt of that, but you are fortunate enough to have a very influential and trustworthy friend, Isolde," the man declared collectedly and I could only gape at the sudden change in stance and personality he had unveiled. "I shall review your evidence and if you are truthful in your accusations, I will do my duty, but if you are lying…" He let the sentence hang palpably in the air so I could hold no illusions about the threat.

"I have told no falsehoods," I assured him earnestly, feeling very vulnerable. I had come face to face with the man who could rid me of my problems or force me to confront them if everything went awry. The official raised an eyebrow and chuckled cynically.

"We shall see soon enough. Go seek out Artorius, _Octavia Calpurnia_." I sensed my cheeks grow warm with embarrassment at his contradictory proof and left the building with a rapid gait in order to put as much ground between myself and him as possible. His mention of Arthur had reminded that I was indeed now tardy for dinner as I had vowed not to be. I knew Vanora would excuse me and the hindrance had been unforeseeable, but I personally hated being the cause of delay for anyone hence my speed in directing myself back to the door of my host. There was a fairly short pause between my knock and the door being opened and the sound of Vanora yelling indiscriminately at her lover permeated out to me before Bors arrived to admit me.

"It _is_ her," he bellowed over his shoulder as I stepped inside with a contrite smile. "Where've you been, girl? We thought you'd left before the rest but they arrived way before you." I considered explaining what had happened in full, but decided not to go into details now.

I merely replied casually, "I was held up for a while, but it has been resolved for the time being." He accepted my comment without further inquiry and not for the first time, I wondered if Bors actually listened to the things I said. We entered the main room where Celia and the knights were assembled around a long oaken table, talking animatedly in some cases and more reservedly in others. My eyes swept the table, an affable smile adorning my lips and I could not ignore that my gaze was irrevocably lingering on Tristan each time. I received a choric greeting and as predicted, Lancelot partnered a flirtatious remark with a playful reprimand on my lack of punctuality.

"Quite so," Lamorak informed me with a sombre expression as I seated myself in a spare chair next to Celia and Dagonet. I could have groaned aloud when I looked ahead and saw that I had decided to sit directly opposite the irksome man whom I had no wish to be so perceptibly captivated by. "Gawain, Galahad and Bors were positively diminishing before our very eyes." Celia swatted her betrothed playfully and eyed my outfit appraisingly.

"I must say that I am very pleased with my handiwork, aren't you?" I nodded emphatically, fingering the material of my sleeve delicately and I refrained from raising my eyes when I pondered whether others around me thought the same. "Are you well? You do look a little pale," she observed concernedly. Before I had the opportunity to improvise an answer, Vanora swept into the room from the kitchen bearing an enormous portion of meat on a platter that she placed on the centre of the table with a flourish. The curve of her pregnant womb was slightly more pronounced now, but it did not seem to have hindered her culinary efforts in the slightest. Several of the Sarmatians cheered in expectation of the indubitably good meal that was to come. The aroma was tantalizing and it took considerable composure not to lean forward in ready anticipation as our hostess took a seat next to Bors.

"Serve the ale and wine, will you?" Vanora snapped at her lover, clearly berating his idleness throughout the preparation for tonight. Grumbling audibly, he rose to carry out this trivial task, knowing very well the repercussions he would face if he dared to argue. "And if it doesn't kill you to wait a moment longer, we'll delay until Arthur arrives." This was pointedly directed at Galahad and Gawain who had both made for the serving dishes immediately, but it was just as well she had said it because I had not realised his absence from the table. Turning to address Dagonet, I asked if he knew the cause of his commander's lateness as I thought it might have something to do with his intervention on my behalf.

"He is often late when he has business to attend to," the man began to inform me but the rest of his words were drowned out by a riotous commotion at the other end of the table. I twisted round to see Vanora leading a weary-looking Arthur back into the room and he was faced by similar jibes that I was, with the conspicuous exception of the amorous ones, of course. After he had taken many of these with characteristic tolerance, Arthur quelled everyone with a grave expression on his countenance. As one, my companions stood up and I swiftly complied with Celia's helpful tug to mimic them.

"Friends," commenced Arthur fondly and I recognised this to be somewhat part of this traditional commemoration from the general sudden modification of ambiance. "Today we celebrate the passing of the fourteenth year since you were brought here from your homeland. Although you have never deserved this, it is your courage and your strength that have enabled us to succeed where others could not. This penultimate year has been a trial for us all and perhaps it is worse for the fact that we are so very near to freedom that our losses are yet more bitter. We will never forget those who have died for a cause that they should never have inherited: Bedivere and Kay this year and every knight who preceded them. On the day I first saw you, I swore as your commander to do all in my power to protect and guide you to freedom, back to Sarmatia. I have failed before but I renew his oath to you now in the hope that a final year of service will pass without the grief that has tainted the preceding ones: I, Arthur Castus swear to pay any price to deliver you, my knights and dearest friends back to your homeland again." A thick silence charged with the poignant words descended on the house and I was surprised to find myself deeply moved by the emotion of Arthur's speech. Indeed, my eyes filled with tears despite the fact I had never known the men who had been slain during the knights' campaign in Britain. Over a minute passed before anyone moved and then a gruff, heartfelt toast was proposed by Bors to Bedivere and Kay which Lancelot followed with a short toast to freedom as if to remind his comrades of the positive side to the day again.

Scarcely had we lowered ourselves onto our chairs before the rush for the food to be served began like they had been wallowing in starvation for days. I knew from the experience of the preparation of their dietary supplies that this was far from the case and found it a bewilderingly amusing sight to witness. Their attitudes were more subdued but their appetites had clearly not been dampened at all. Once the more assertive of the diners had transferred their fill onto their laden plates, I joined the rest in a more restrained serving as, once more conversation broke out. I had no clue how to act after the moving tribute or what kind of talk would be befitting, so I avoided Tristan's gaze carefully as I handed him the potatoes which proved to be quite unwise when I nearly dropped the entire dish.

"Your bruise has healed well, Isolde. It has almost vanished completely," Dagonet remarked from beside me – a welcome distraction and also showing me that talk could resume as usual.

"Yes, the salve certainly seemed to accelerate the process. May I ask what was in it?" I asked curiously, enjoying the agreeable chatter that was going on around me. We spent a long time around the table and I ate the tempting spread of food with unexpected reserve, preferring to talk with those around me. When all the food had long since been finished off, we gradually left the table to sit around the fireplace as best we could. There was a shortfall in available space so Galahad, Lancelot and I relaxed on the thick rug on the floor even though Lancelot's close proximity was a nuisance to me after his habitual glut of alcohol.

"Why don't you sing to us, Vanora?" Lamorak urged slyly, justly confident of the support this notion would receive from his fellow knights.

"No, I can't. One and Two have just got the younger ones to go to sleep and they'll never stay abed if they hear singing," she said, trying to acquit herself. However, the knights would not be so readily satisfied and in the end, I was brought in as a final resort to sway the talented mother.

"Don't you think Vanora should sing?" Galahad implored me with a wicked grin. He knew that if I joined in and voiced a desire to hear her sing, there could be no way to persevere with her refusals.

My hesitation was minute as I considered whether she would believe me to be disloyal if I gave my true opinion. "I should very much like to hear you, Vanora," I said with an impish smile and laughed at her pretense of outrage. In the end, she relented under the onslaught but only on the condition that Celia should contribute in the chorus. The seamstress consented without much reluctance; her inhibitions watered down by the wine she had already imbibed during the course of the evening.

The song was hauntingly melodic and slow, made more affecting by its pertinent theme of homeland. My mind turned to thoughts of Ireland, then to my old fort but neither of these could I truly name as my home. I was a drifter, bound never to The listeners were all transfixed by the two gifted singers and I could see that the knights were stirred to grief and recollection by the music but each displayed it in a way befitting their diverse personalities. Some, such as Dagonet and Lamorak were moved to the brink of tears but Galahad mimed the lyrics himself, enthralled by its message of hope and it struck me that he had retained a form of innocence, uncorrupted by cynicism or blood throughout his service. As the last sustained note faded, the two women were entreated to sing something more jovial and I looked on with quiet mirth as the familiar scene began for the second time.

"Isolde," Arthur called softly, beckoning me to follow him outdoors. It was refreshing to be outdoors and away from the commotion indoors as the hosts' children piled into the room from upstairs, protesting at their unfair exclusion. "I have spoken to Pius Crasus Brittanicus, the military official at this fort and he has agreed to survey the evidence against Gwytheyrn. It is a promising sign and I know him to be an honourable man," Arthur explained. I was not wholly convinced as I had witnessed the man's willful deception of his own men and did not know if any man existed whom Arthur would think to be a bad person. "However, word has been spread of your escape and a substantial reward for your recovery has been issued so you will need to keep a low profile."

I stopped Arthur before he could continue. "I am aware of this," I told him seriously. "Two soldiers stopped me on my way here and took me to that official's office. He lied to them and told them that I wasn't Isolde before letting me go with a warning."

"It is fortuitous that this occurred after I had been to see him," Arthur breathed in relief. I concurred quickly and marveled at the numerous narrow escapes I had undertaken in such a brief period. Arthur's face looked eerily drawn and almost haggard in the twilight, so much so that I shivered at his resemblance to my uncle who too possessed bright green eyes. "We shall have to wait and see how this attempt concludes before anything else can be done for you." How I loathed pure waiting games!

"Thank you," I whispered gratefully and although it seemed inadequate, his look told me that he understood what I meant to say. With a taut smile, Arthur ducked back inside to join the others in merriment but I lingered a moment to experience the clandestine seclusion brought by night before I too went back to my friends. I slipped in noiselessly, glad to find that our disappearance was not commented on for I had no desire to discuss such a depressing matter now. Song had once again become the focus of the group after the children had been propelled back to bed by their covertly affectionate father. The two women were singing a buoyant duet that I had never heard before but it seemed to be a n old favourite with the knights. Feeling contented and lulled into injudiciousness by the beat of the music, I ignored my discretion to permit myself to take heed of my impulses. One must live for the moment when the possibility of death loomed overhead like a portentous storm cloud, even if only in minuscule ways. I glanced at the scout who sat drinking from his tankard and looking undeniably bored by the homely atmosphere. As attracted as I now had to confess I was to Tristan, I could never hope to act on such an insubstantial basis. Besides, if a man of his stoicism did not have the means to act as interested with his mildly intoxicated friends as with his animal companions I was at a loss to see how I could ever capture his attention. Smiling inexplicably I inaugurated myself into the midst of the gaiety which lasted long after midnight had passed, caring neither for execution warrants nor hopeless fancies.


	16. Chapter 16

Hello everyone again! I realise I've been out of the loop for an embarrassingly long time (2 long years!) and had stopped updating as I was going through a very busy, stressful period of my life and felt I could not do justice to my fanfic. I'm very sorry to those amazingly kind people who reviewed and enjoyed my story at that time for not continuing sooner, but I am now keen to get back to writing in some shape or form! If people are still interested, this fairly chapter includes lots of Tristan (as an apology!) and I hope you'll enjoy it. Feedback is always welcomed.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own the King Arthur film or its characters. I am writing solely for entertainment purposes.

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**Chapter 16**

**Tidings for Good or Ill**

The days drifted by in isolated protracted monotony at the knights' quarters and still no definitive verdict came from Pius Crasus Brittanicus. Arthur often reminded me of the onerous deliberations that the Roman justice system was supposedly founded on and the unprecedented, corrupt circumstances surrounding Lord Gwrytheyrn did not aid the matter. The commander himself had undoubtedly invested heavily in my case for his own altruistic reasons, but he showed no outward signs of concern. On the other hand, I was exceptionally anxious and, at worst, despondent so for once, I valued Hedera's acerbic rebukes, spurring me to work longer and more diligently than before at any task she asked of me. The indomitable woman had a remarkable way of simultaneously lifting the morale and firing critical comments that would have guaranteed the fearful respect of any Roman garrison.

One afternoon, whilst I was resolutely polishing stubborn ale stains from the surface of the otherwise impeccable round table, welcome news arrived from an unexpected quarter.

"Tristan!" I exclaimed, more brightly than one would predict given my prior melancholy. "Is there anything you require?" The scout shook his head disinterestedly.

"No. I came to tell you that Arthur was called away to see Crasus." My stomach lurched with a rush of mingled emotions I could not easily distinguish. I had hoped for this news so fervently in recent days that I seemed scarcely to care whether the judgement was favourable or not.

"Did Arthur tell you anything else? Is there a decision yet regarding my accusation?" I asked in a flurry, negligently casting aside the filthy cloth I had been using. Tristan raised his eyebrows pointedly and I realised that I had seized his left hand in a vice-like grip of nervous supplication in my fretful state. I swiftly relinquished and instead clasped my hands behind my back with an uncanny semblance of one of Bors' girls caught red-handed in the act of their impish mischief.

"No idea," Tristan replied with a shrug. "He left not half an hour ago. You should go find him now."

"Yes, I will," I agreed hurriedly and decided that facing Hedera's wrath for abandoning my duty was marginally preferable to an insufferable period of anticipation. "It was most kind of you, Tristan, to inform me." I was indeed truly touched by the gesture and could not help but wonder at this simple act of kindness since neither the knight's inscrutable words nor expression had shed light on his motives.

As if guessing my bewildered thoughts, he told me with a wry, but unmistakeable glint in his eyes, "Sulking does not suit you, Isolde. Come." Momentarily astounded by this jibe, a few seconds passed before a genuine, shy smile reached my lips and masked some of the trepidation that haunted my days.

Nevertheless, on our way towards the Roman official's building, the Sarmatian did not see fit to slow his long, effortless strides to match my own gait and I imagined with secret amusement that we must have appeared a most incongruous pair to all those we passed in the street. Although I had not ventured outside the relative safety of the knights' compound for several days now on Arthur's explicit request, I was afforded no leisure to accustom myself to the fort's familiar sights and smells again, but I did not wish to linger when so much was at stake. I would have turned down both the prospect of Celia's fine culinary delights and a poignant performance of Vanora's singing without regret in favour of a more rapid arrival.

It did not take long to reach our imposing destination and once there, I was grateful for Tristan's presence that permitted me to pass into the important building unimpeded by the haughty guardsmen, followed merely by their curious gazes instead of overtly hostile questioning. Tristan halted in front of an ornate yet protectively sturdy wooden door and I was struck by the realisation that this was the very place where the security of my future was being decided. Such momentous contemplation did markedly little to alleviate my nerves.

"Arthur and Crasus…they are in there?" I croaked unattractively, my mouth suddenly turning as dry as tinder. My companion nodded curtly, accompanied with a roguish quirk of his lips, no doubt due to the loss of control of my tongue that afflicted me once too frequently in his company. However, Tristan himself seemed to have expended all the words he was willing to upon me for the time being and he started to set off as if to resume his own mysterious daily business.

Emboldened, or perhaps more likely addled by my tenuous situation, I purposefully reached out to take his cool hand which was traced by a spidery network of scars that bore testament to his lengthy service to the Empire. Surprise briefly played across his striking features and words might have wholly failed me if not for the sense of triumph this fleeting reversal of roles brought me.

"Thank you," I whispered simply since I did not believe that Tristan would appreciate minced words or flamboyant displays of gratitude; for my part, I was disinclined to give them at any rate.

"The other knights like you." I certainly was not prepared for his nonchalant and, by my interpretation, unnecessarily harsh reasoning. Whilst the comment could arguably be construed as a complimentary indication of the Sarmatians' firm affection for me, I was unable to ignore the exclusion of the scout himself in the sentiment. I felt wounded all the more because of my unusually audacious attempt to appeal to his human side and, after an involuntary glance at his face, I turned away towards the door to hide my burning embarrassment. This look was all I needed to perceive the sudden steeliness of his expression that utterly contrasted with the vulnerability of my hurt bemusement.

As the scout's footsteps retreated, I bitterly lamented how nothing could ever be as simple as it initially seemed, least of all the enigma of Tristan. I did not wish to accept that some differences in character were irreconcilable, especially as the character in question seemed as unfathomable as the night sky itself.

"Isolde…Isolde," Arthur called insistently and I started out of my reverie. My ridiculous musings about Tristan had driven even the sense of anticipation about Crasus' review of my evidence from my mind. "I did not expect to meet you here, but I am glad of it. Come inside." I could not draw any conclusion whatsoever from Arthur's attitude as he seemed his usual brisk and courteous self – neither pleased nor disappointed by the critical ruling.

"Ah, Octavia Calpurnia, it is a pleasure to see you again. I have congratulated Arthur and his knights on their notably disreputable skill of harbouring a fugitive of the Roman Empire under our very noses!" Crasus rose to greet me, bending to kiss my hand in a somewhat ironic fashion. Surely his vivacity was a sign of our campaign's success, but the Sarmatian knights' warning to never trust true Romans rung in my ears unsolicited. Looking to Arthur for reassurance, I prompted the man earnestly to reveal his verdict without further ado. He laughed, but not unkindly and announced: "In my opinion, the evidence is strong enough to provoke a serious enquiry into Gwrytheyrn's recent affairs, but you must remember that a trial in itself does not always lead to conviction. I also doubt that you yourself will be in a position to partake in the trial in light of your quite ambiguous status. We must wait to see if your uncle's powerful friends are willing to uphold him in the face of the law or simply abandon him to the dogs. Such matters are never predictable when scoundrels are involved. As we speak a group of my men are heading to his court to ensure he is kept under strict house arrest. "

I could scarcely contain my joy at these welcome tidings and his sombre caveat did nothing to dampen my childlike elation. Arthur too chuckled at my reaction although I was sure his understanding of the legal implications far exceeded mine. For the second time that day, I offered my sincere gratitude to the two men and received a significantly more affable response that I had previously.

With the ominous threat of the assassin vanquished and a glimpse of justice for my uncle on the horizon, I dared to wonder if life might soon shine all the brighter for me, regardless of any of Tristan's inexplicable insults or apparent benevolence. There would be a long time to wait yet, but I had renewed hope that one day perhaps, I would be free of my relative's enveloping shadow.


	17. Chapter 17

I'm pleased to present another longer update for your enjoyment! There's a bit more on Tristan and Isolde's bizarre relationship in this chapter as well as a look at her friendships at the fort. Hope you like it and I would be immensely grateful for any more reviews!

**Disclaimer: **I do not own the King Arthur film or any of its characters. This is written purely for recreational purposes.

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**Chapter 17**

**Green Gold  
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As soon as my initial, heartening audience with Crasus was concluded, I was politely ushered from his office, but not before I had obtained his word that he would send missives to either Arthur or myself when any developments occurred. Arthur and I chatted freely and merrily as he escorted me back to my maid duties. Our conversation inevitably turned to his brothers-in-arms, whom I had regrettably distanced myself from in the previous few difficult days.

"No doubt the knights will be toasting your good fortune tonight," Arthur assured me ruefully. It was highly likely as they delighted in using any excuse to down more pints of ale than seemed good for them.

"Yes, I imagine Vanora will have her hands full tonight when she tries to maintain order at the tavern!" I laughed, not envying her position in the slightest.

"I sometimes think she copes better than I in that respect," Arthur replied, shaking his head. "She only has to raise her voice and Bors will leap to obey." I reasoned that this must be a very useful talent when one had a lover as boisterous as the stocky knight could be when he wished it.

We parted ways amicably, both returning to our ordinary routines and although his arms training might be considered far less mundane the drudgery of cleaning, I felt quite content with my lot in life once again. After the lengthy process of polishing the famed round table was satisfactorily completed, I sought out the housekeeper for further tasks.

"There you are, girl! I had to prepare the knights' lunch and take it to the training field myself since you saw fit to absent yourself without permission," Hedera grumbled irritably. I winced apologetically and began to explain the reason until she interrupted: "Never mind, never mind. Sir Tristan told me he'd sent you on some errand or other. As if he has leave to do so when_ he_ does not pay your wages! Well, as it happens I need you to fetch him some supplies for the scouting trip he is embarking on at dawn. Mind you rise early enough to give them to him before he set off. " She proceeded to reel off a list of motley provisions, slipping in occasional snide asides doubting my capability of gathering them all without difficulty. I wordlessly did my best to conduct them to memory, but I had not missed the fact that the scout had done me a considerable favour in assuming responsibility for my absence from work.

Once she had sufficiently briefed me, I set about finding the items he required for such a journey. I was uncertain of my feelings about his imminent departure almost as much as I was about being compelled to encounter him again after our last uncomfortable exchange. The simple yet substantial food was thankfully present in the dank cellars and the clean laundry had been freshly cleaned. Other supplies, such as assorted unfamiliar waxes and polishes for his armour and tack to replace those which had surely been diminished by heavy use, were more tricky to track down. In the end, I admitted my inexperience in purchasing such items to Dagonet, whom I encountered in a corridor and he kindly directed me to a particular stall in the market where I might have greater success.

I did not see much harm in a short visit to the sprawling market of the fort, especially when the sun hung high in the sky and my face would be rendered anonymous amongst the general throng of bargain seekers and vendors. The gentle, cooling breeze created a pleasant sensation and I staved off the trifling concerns at the back of my mind following the recent attack. At first the arms stall proved elusive, but after navigating my winding path through the bustling crowd, my attention was attracted by one of the traders who was pitching his wares to a sceptical pair of Roman soldiers. Upon closer inspection, the stall's identity was unmistakeable and I patiently waited my turn, ignoring the curious glance from the trader by admiring the wealth of objects on offer.

"How can I help you, miss?" the man asked after he had failed to tempt the soldiers to part with their coins. He was a tough looking character, with perhaps fifty years of experience in the world and from his crooked nose and chosen area of expertise, I guessed he might be a retired legionary.

"I'm seeking a few items for an expedition, but I would be grateful for your advice; I am not sure exactly of what they may be," I confessed contritely and recited the names Hedera had given me.

"That's not too troublesome at all, miss. See, this here," he explained, selecting a few little bags made of stiff leather and miniature pots containing acrid substances, "helps keep a blade in optimum condition and the other one here ensures your tack – that's your reins, stirrups and saddle- stays nice and supple…" He persisted in this fashion for each of the wares I had requested and despite his meticulous instruction I could not recall which property belonged to which substance by the end. Nevertheless, I thanked him earnestly for his assistance and settled the bill without attempting to barter, using the modest sum I had been entrusted with for any 'reasonable expenditure'. I was glad I had decided upon bringing a basket to carry the last of the provisions back home and wondered how Tristan managed to travel in relative stealth with all his vital effects as well. Just as I was about to return, a very different stall caught my eye and I hesitated briefly before reasoning that if one of my gestures of gratitude had gone awry in his eyes, then maybe a disparate, silent tact would be more to the scout's taste.

"Three of your finest apples," I requested sweetly, holding out a coin from my own purse. I could not help but question whether I was a fool to pursue the matter as he had surely been the party at fault, or so I liked to believe.

* * *

The next morning I awoke before sunrise with Hedera's warning ringing in my ears. Consequently, my slumber had been deeply unsettled and fragmented because of my fervent desire not to sleep overlong and miss Tristan's departure. This however, had afforded me ample time to ponder my uncle's upcoming trial and now I had had enough time to fully absorb the news, I was surprised by my lack of animosity towards Gwrytheyrn. Certainly, I prayed for his conviction and found his malicious deeds despicable, but a true sense of burning hatred eluded me, which I almost regretted for I believed that my circumstances provided abundant justification.

I supressed a yawn and attempted to revive myself with a splash of icy water I had purposefully set aside before bathing yesterday; foresight for which I was currently very grateful. Next, I thoroughly checked I had gathered up all the necessary supplies and departed my chamber, noting with satisfaction that the rays of sunlight had yet to make any significant assault through the window. I stopped abruptly outside Tristan's door for I did not know if he had risen yet in preparation for his trip. I somehow hoped that he had done so as I was not sure either how he would react to being woken at such an unsociable hour or indeed how I would respond. After glancing down the dingy hallway, I pressed my ear against the door but there no sound permeated the wood; although this alone could not be taken as a definite indication of absence where the silent knight was concerned. Knocking firmly on the door also procured a negative response from within and so I thought it safe to assume he had already left for the stables. It seemed that Tristan had no qualms about waking early in notable contrast with a large proportion of the other Sarmatian knights. I hastened to the stables, all the way quietly cursing my luck that I was forced to carry the provisions considerably further than planned. Inside, the occupants of the stables were still peaceful and I caught sight of the scout up ahead as he was proficiently readying his own steed.

I casually bade him good morning and was secretly pleased by my composure. He grunted in return before continuing with his work and so I began unpacking my load in a type of cordial silence. It did not take him long to finish attending to his beautiful horse and he examined the items I had brought from the market with intense scrutiny.

"Good stuff," he acknowledged approvingly, meeting my eye steadily for the first time that morning.

"Dagonet pointed me in the right direction. I was perplexed at what they really were," I confessed, with a relieved smile on my lips. In response he drew his distinctive curved sword from its weathered scabbard and used a cloth to test a little of one of substances on the finely honed blade. I barely withheld a gasp of something akin of fearful amazement at the formidable sight of him armed despite knowing full well he unleashed his lethal force only upon his enemies, not inconsequential young maids.

"This one protects the surface of the blade a little," the fierce scout explained simply.

"Yes, the man informed me of their uses, but I'm afraid I can be rather hopeless at remembering such things," I replied lightly in a self-deprecatory tone. It was certainly true: my recollection of historical facts far exceeded that of functional, everyday knowledge. He transferred all the objects and food I had fetched for him into the saddlebags whilst his horse remained admirably still, shifting only a little between hooves in anticipation of the ride. I did not realise that I had been staring for too long to avoid detection until Tristan turned back to me with a quizzical and subtly amused expression.

I blushed and hurried to hand over two of the shiny green apples I had purchased from the market that I had tucked safely at the very bottom of my basket to present as a parting gift. If he was surprised by my tokens, he did not show it and gently reached out to take them from me. As he did so, his hand rested against my own for longer than necessary and I found my gaze unwittingly locked on his depthless dark eyes just for those brief, breathless instants in the restful stables. "Stay out of trouble, Isolde."

I nodded, as mute as he was usually prone to be, though not entirely voluntarily. In fact, I longed to speak out, but could not make head or tail of the turbulent swirl of thoughts that clamoured for supremacy inside my mind. Within a few moments, the scout had smoothly mounted his steed and was gone, the rhythmic clatter of hooves on stone signalling his retreat.

With a sigh, I wandered over to where my own horse, Murtagh was comfortably stabled in order to be allowed to ponder in his silent, non-judgemental companionship. I noted that his physical condition was excellent, even clear to a novice and I greeted him fondly. He was rather more impressed by my attendance when I presented him with the third apple I had saved specially as a rare treat for him. Murtagh would willingly fulfil any command if some tasty morsel would be his just reward and I delighted at his eager response to the succulent fruit. It was satisfying to know that both the recipients of these trivial gifts seemed equally content in their own manner.

"Well, well Isolde. It is a pleasure to see you up and about already," came Lancelot's unmistakeably dulcet voice from close behind me. I started sharply and turned to smile at the charming knight as well as Gawain and Galahad who were with him, albeit displaying noticeably less vigour at such an hour of the morning.

"Arthur told us the good news," Galahad interjected, clumsily tying the laces of his jerkin as he lounged against a stray bale of hay.

"One step closer to stopping the bastard," Gawain added with a grin and clapped me on the back with amicable if forceful camaraderie as he strolled past towards his mount's stall. I concealed a wince behind a yawn that was not wholly feigned.

"We were intending to ride out later to exercise our horses before our next mission tomorrow. Would you care to keep us company?" the youngest knight invited generously.

"I would love that, thank you," I replied without hesitation since I had enjoyed myself immensely on the previous occasion and it would be good for Murtagh as well. "That is, as long as I am solely a spectator if you all wish to race." My spectacular tumble had caused injury to my sense of pride as opposed to much physical pain, but this time I would leave the Sarmatians to their amusing tomfoolery.

"Then you shall cheer for me, fair lady," Lancelot jested, bowing gallantly, but his charms were rendered utterly ineffectual upon me following my intense encounter with his enigmatic comrade not long beforehand. At my shoulder, Murtagh whickered impatiently and bent his powerful neck down to my level in greedy pursuit of more luscious green apples.

"Later you may have another treat," I whispered affectionately. "And I may buy you another apple if you do not make me look more of a fool than I already am."

* * *

Daybreak the following day signalled the time for Arthur to lead his loyal knights many miles out west, using Tristan's hard-earned intelligence to locate and quell a band of woads daring enough to breach Hadrian's Wall and wreak havoc on the locals there. The modest farming settlement had been ruthlessly pillaged, but the woads had been more thankfully focused on razing grain stores and symbols of Roman domination to the ground than slaying the folk who lived under their rule. I watched them from the wall of the fort with both Vanora and Celia as the men galloped away in full armour and high spirits. We stood in silence until they appeared as no more than specks in the distance, each woman keeping her own thoughts, hopes and fears private. After looking at their soft, grave expressions, I could not help but wonder what their lovers had spoken to them just prior to their separation – an occurrence which both sides were now well accustomed to, but I doubted if the parting grew easier to bear. The knights themselves never seemed to show emotions of fear of trepidation about their military duties, least of all Tristan, whom had caught my gaze in silent communication, effectively cutting through the general hubbub and I shyly hid a smile when I saw that he held an apple in his hand.

"Well," sighed Celia, drawing herself away from the precipice of the wall. "They won't return for some days yet. We should take our moment's peace while we may and sit down for a nice gossip!"

"That sounds perfect," I agreed in delight. It would help to prevent dark thoughts entering my mind about the knights I now regarded so highly as friends. "Hedera should have no complaints as there will be little to do now the quarters are vacant. Besides, my legs ache terribly after yesterday's ride and I can think of no better remedy than the one you have proposed!"

Vanora raised her eyebrows in that sly, perceptive way of hers: "Yes, Bors told me about your escapades, but I'll wager you were a little vexed that a certain scout was not accompanying you yesterday instead of the rest of the riotous bunch!" My eyes widened in shock at her somewhat accurate suggestion, but I never had a talent for dramatic pretence and was compelled to admit a partial defeat to my two friends.

"It's not quite like that," I sighed, confronting their disbelief and then swiftly lapsing. "Well, I do not believe it is quite so simple at any rate."

"There's no mistaking the longing gaze you were fixing on that man this morning, Isolde," Vanora laughed kindly with her hand moving subconsciously to her pregnant belly. "You can explain what's been going on between you two fully at my house over dinner." The finality with which she proclaimed this made it perfectly clear to me that neither she nor Celia would let me escape lightly in this regard.

* * *

As suspected, the pair interrogated me remorselessly as we settled down to a delicious meal accompanied by a substantial pitcher full of rich, fruity wine. Celia and Vanora attempted to prise any intriguing details out of me by fair means and foul during the conversation that centred on my curious relationship with Tristan. In their opinion, I had a disappointingly meagre amount of information I could honestly offer since I felt bemused and enraptured in equal measures by the tatooed, inscrutable warrior. When I mentioned my trivial gift of apples, however, the two women giggled in a manner better suited to young, doting girls half their age.

"Tristan's not a bad soul, contrary to what some may in their ignorance," Vanora acceded and Celia nodded thoughtfully in agreement. "But you just be careful, dear." She leant across the table to squeeze my hand in maternal reassurance. There was no doubt though that her cautious, well-intentioned words unsettled me a great deal: could I have read too much into the scout's words and actions recently? I lapsed into uncomfortable, silent reverie until Celia drew me back into the conversation to ask my opinion on a potential design for a client's dress. Our amicable discussion lasted well after darkness had descended on topics that were of considerably less embarrassment to me until Vanora's pressing duties of motherhood to such a clan of offspring encouraged us all to go our separate ways for the time being.

Although I would have staunchly refused to openly admit it, sharing my feelings with two of my dearest, most trusted companions had been of benefit in understanding my own mindset more fully. I guessed that only time would tell what the truth of my relationship with Tristan was or might lead to in the future.


	18. Chapter 18

Thanks for the encouraging reviews again! Its great to hear feedback from my readers and any advice, requests, or criticisms you may have. This chapter contains some dramatic developments, which I hope will keep you entertained and I now have a clearer idea of what will come next for Isolde and the knights!

**Disclaimer: **I do not own the King Arthur film or any of its characters. This is purely written for recreational purposes only.

* * *

**Chapter 18**

**A Call for Aid**

The knights' spacious dwelling had developed an almost eerie stillness in their absence, matching the hollow sensation that weaved its way into my consciousness in the quiet moments that punctuated my day. My footsteps seemed to acquire a deafening ring as I paced down the corridors and even Hedera was less demanding whilst they were gone. There could be no doubt that I missed them all despite the fact that they had only left four days ago, but my bond with Celia and Vanora flourished in that short time, united by our shared interests.

As it happened, there was a man whose word I craved even more keenly than that of the returning warriors at the time: Commander Crasus. I was mired in thankless task of hanging bed linen out to dry when my desire was realised.

"Miss Isolde?" a quavering voice called from the opposite side of the courtyard. I swivelled round to face the intruder curiously, drying my damp hands on my skirt carelessly in the process. "I bring you a letter from _Pius Crasus Brittanicus_." The messenger was a rangy young man, perhaps in his mid-teens, with a decidedly gauche manner and the oversized garments he wore smothered his slim form in a comical fashion. The meticulous emphasis he employed when uttering the Roman's name was a clear indication of the reverence in which he was held. For all I cared, Crasus could have sent the missive by the emperor of Rome himself and I would have been no less jubilant to see him. I rushed over to him as swiftly as I dared over the loose and perilous cobblestones.

"Thank you," I gushed inattentively, seizing the outstretched slip of parchment from his hand. I scarcely noticed the youth's departure as I unfolded the note, skimming over its highly-anticipated contents with the speed of an avid reader. It read thus:

_Lady Isolde,_

_I have just received word that Lord Gwrytheyrn is to stand trial the crimes of murder and conspiracy against the holy Roman state. The trial is to be held in two days' time for there is a rumour that word of his corruption had already reached the ears of those situated among the upper echelons of Rome itself and needless to say. They are not best pleased by his brazen abuse. I regret to say that his two accomplices, Hadrianus and Terentius will not face judgement alongside him since the former elected to take his own life and the latter fled. _

_I hope this news may bring some peace to your heart and mind. _

_Pius Crasus Brittanicus_

I let my pent-up breath out in a rush of emotion and leant against the wall for to relieve and support my trembling frame. My uncle was to stand before the eyes of the law, just as I had done in those days that now seemed so dark and distant! I brushed away some moisture that rose up unbidden behind my closed eyelids with impatience because I did not wish to let this small victory overwhelm me, especially since much still remained to ponder over. Once the primary news had cemented itself in my consciousness, I was struck by the report of Hadrianus' suicide, which had been conveyed with callous brevity in the message, most likely because Crasus was unaware of his role in my escape and indeed my former life. I, however, would not forget his redemptive act lightly and shuddered to imagine his last lonely, guilt-ridden days on this Earth. I hoped for both his sake and mine that the court would rule in our favour and rightly condemn the man who had brought so much strife to that influential estate on the far reaches of the Roman Empire.

The sight of damp fingerprints on the parchment of the fateful letter brought me sharply back to reality; I had work to do that could not be ignored if I was going to sustain this new, independent lifestyle of mine. Now that my keen sense of anticipation was momentarily sated, I could set about my tasks with genuine vigour.

Vanora and Celia were obviously delighted when I informed them of the progress that had begun and I received two spontaneous hearty embraces gladly despite the slight bruising incurred on my ribs. Unfortunately, a lack of correspondence from Arthur and his men after their expected return date brought a perpetual shade of concern into their unguarded expressions, which I am certain, was mirrored by my own. None of us broached the subject openly, but Vanora was beleaguered by anxious questioning from her children that was initially answered patiently, but latterly had been suppressed by either the mother's razor tongue or the elder children's best diplomatic efforts.

* * *

Whilst snatching a few additional moments of indolent rest on the morning that marked a week since their departure from the fort, I was disturbed by the raucous, shrill call of a bird that, from its piercing volume, seemed to emanate from directly outside my window. I groaned and burrowed deeper into my bed linen in a futile attempt to smother the incessant song. Regrettably, I had no such fortune and was unable to ignore such a racket to continue my indulgent rest any longer.

"I wager this is some foul scheme of Hedera's," I mumbled in irritation as I stumbled to the window sill with the intention of shooing the persistent bird away from my vicinity. Just as I was about to clap my hands to launch the troublesome creature into flight, I noticed with a gasp that upon closer inspection, it was Tristan's hawk, Zhiva that was perched on a stone wall below my chamber. Perhaps, it was not such an unwelcome visitor after all since the presence of Zhiva indicated that her owner must be following close behind.

I dressed in haste, but took a little more time than ordinary until I was reasonably content with my appearance. I hoped that I could alert my two friends to the Sarmatians' imminent return so that we would be able to greet them as they reached the gates. Before I left the building, I darted into the kitchen to select a slither of prime venison for the majestic hawk, which I was sure the knights would not begrudge as the haunch of venison had been hung and expertly prepared for their homecoming feast. My burgeoning confidence manifested itself when I barely hesitated before offering the piece of rich game to the sometimes temperamental raptor and was gratified when she paid me no attention whatsoever, but snatched my gift with complete accuracy this time. "It's wonderful to see you too, you beautiful girl," I whispered with a laugh and set off to the seamstresses house in good humour.

The pounding of hooves on the road ahead alerted me to the fact that I was too late and so I waited with a broad smile for the riders to reach me. I immediately felt something was wrong when a single knight rounded the corner with great alacrity, braids dishevelled and his grey steed's flanks were quivering from exertion. A swift glance over his body reassured me that the scout himself seemed to be unhurt even if there was a decidedly weary slump in his shoulders.

Catching sight of me, he drew to a halt just in front of me. "Isolde, summon a healer now," Tristan ordered shortly and his urgency struck me to the core like a physical blow. "The others are not far behind."

I simply had to know a little more before I hurried for aid: "Who is injured? Is it serious?"

The scout nodded heavily, "Aye, its Lamorak." The horror of the situation took my breath away and my first thought was for Celia when she herself found out the grave tidings, but I wasted no more time and rushed through the streets towards the lodgings belonging to the local apothecary and healer, whose wares had so often idly attracted my interest.

Once there, I burst in through the door in a dramatic fashion and frantically addressed the surprised woman who was bottling remedies behind the dusty counter. "Excuse me," I panted, "one of the Sarmatian knights desperately requires medical aid. He is being returned by comrades as we speak."

The woman set aside the assortment of jars with a troubled look, replied "I'm afraid the healer is not here at the moment. I am trained in basic healing, so may help as much as I am able. How is he wounded?"

I shook my head and tried to remain calm for Lamorak's sake. "I do not know other than it is a grievous wound he sustained in combat. Where is the healer? Can he be summoned now?"

"Not soon at any rate," the assistant responded honestly. "One of his apprentices who serves a village some miles away called him for aid over the outbreak of some sickness there." Although she was not to blame, I could not easily contain my frustration and despair that such a fort had been left without a trained healer. "Wait," the woman cried suddenly, "there is a woman, whom I've heard is a master of her art and I believe she is still lodged at the edge of fort on a visit. Perhaps if you explain the problem, she will help the knight."

It appeared that some luck had arisen at last and I quickly garnered the address of the passing healer's lodgings and followed the instructions without delay, praying that I would not hinder Lamorak's recovery on account of the troubles I had encountered.

* * *

The apothecary's advice paid off and after I had relayed my brief account to the healer, she was convinced to treat Lamorak as best as she could. Her name was Morgan and I instantly liked her candour, the sincerity of her gaze and her willingness to answer my plea without endless questions, except a few of a purely professional basis.

When we arrived back at the knights' quarters, Jols was pacing anxiously outside and directed me straight up to Lamorak's bedchamber, evidently and implicitly trusting that I had brought a reputable healer to attend to our mutual friend. I showed Morgan the way in a silence which she respected and when we entered the injured knight's room, we were confronted by the faces of his comrades, twisted by pain and concern. Arthur rose from the bedside to greet us and I craned around the throng to see Lamorak, who was prostrate in the bed and completely motionless. Celia was equally still at his side, clasping his hand in her own without taking her eyes off him. It was difficult to watch the pitiful torment that was so evident on her countenance as she watched over her lover and so I cowardly looked away, examining the other knights for signs of bloodshed, but found nothing but minor cuts and bruises – the usual assortment of wounds to be expected from brutal conflict.

Arthur and Morgan were conversing in a hushed tone with grave expressions and then the healer raised her clear voice for all to hear, "I need some space to inspect this man's wounds. I'd like you to leave whilst I do so." This met with some resistance and there were murmurings of discontent from the more volatile knights, such as Galahad and Bors who deeply disliked her order, but between them, Arthur, Dagonet and Tristan managed to clear the crowded room so that only Celia and the patient remained. I myself was about to join the knights until Morgan laid a hand on my arm and said grimly, "Stay. I might have need of some assistance." Therefore, I chose to stand by Celia with a comforting hand on her shoulder as the stranger passed her intense sky blue eyes over her new charge.

I was almost reduced to tears by the sight of poor Lamorak as he lay in that bed, pale and lifeless and I noticed the pervasive stench of blood rose from beneath the bed covers. With a warning glance at me, Morgan flicked them back to reveal a horrific, gaping stab wound that marred the knight's muscular abdomen. Dagonet had obviously cleaned it and the bleeding had been stemmed effectively, but even with my rudimentary knowledge of healing, I understood that the injury would draw him to the very precipice of mortality. I hoped Morgan's skill had not been overestimated in this regard for I struggled to see how one could recover from such a blow. Celia too was shocked by the gravity of her betrothed's predicament and she let out a heart-wrenching sob.

"Lamorak is a strong man," I whispered to her, hiding my sorrow and my doubt as much as possible. "Be brave for his sake."

Once she had fully assessed the stab wound the Sarmatian had sustained during the skirmishes against the Woads, the healer beckoned me to the opposite side of the room, which was an action that Celia did not even seem to acknowledge in her grief.

"The man has lost a great deal of blood and the risk of the wound going bad is unfortunately high," she told me in an undertone and my heart sunk as she confirmed what I most feared. "I will do what I can, so you must fetch some hot water to make up this poultice for me." I nodded resolutely, willing to assist in whatever way and glad to busy myself in the face of such trauma.

"Shall I fetch him some willow bark tea?" I enquired worriedly and when she cocked an eyebrow, I stammered, "I meant to alleviate his pain, but forgive me." I was foolish to advise a healer on what should be given to the wounded, even if my best intentions provoked me.

"No, you're right," she reassured me with a curt, humourless smile. "I already have some bark in my pack, but you may bring me a cup for it, if you will." She gave me an appraising look up and down as if to assess my very character from my bearing and appearance. "You have a good manner. I've been a healer long enough to recognise natural propensity when I see it. I could do with a hand like yours these days."

On that bewildering proposal, I left to collect the supplies required for Lamorak's treatment, too upset to truly consider what Morgan had implied. Thoughts about my own prospects were now secondary when my friend's own future was in doubt.


	19. Chapter 19

The story continues at last! I hope you will enjoy this chapter and would really love some feedback on it as well as the story as a whole so please leave a review!

**Disclaimer: **I do not own the _King Arthur _film or any of its characters. This is written purely for entertainment purposes.

* * *

**Chapter 19**

**Downfall  
**

Life is such a delicate creature, but Lamorak clung to it over the next couple of days and nights. His natural strength prevented him from slipping away too easily, but was not sufficient to rouse him from his apparent lifeless state. There was a constant vigil by his bedside, resolutely held by Celia and both the knights and I paid frequent visits to the hush of that chamber, despite the force of will it required to see such a dear friend or comrade in his grave condition. The healer Morgan flitted to and fro, maintaining a respectful and doubtlessly efficient silence as she administered whatever pain relief and sustenance she was able to.

When I attended the wounded knight, either to lend modest assistance to Morgan or to watch and inwardly hope for some spark of improvement, my sorrow was only blunted if Tristan was at my side. His soundless comfort was, I was quite certain, unintentional on his part, but it was all that kept me from the verge of interminable tears when I witnessed Celia herself break down before my eyes, burying her pallid, drawn face into the blankets that enveloped her betrothed.

I had just been discharged from both Hedera's and Morgan's services for the day my passage down the corridor was blocked as a figure halted in front of me. As with all of us who emerged from Lamorak's sick room, I had to lift my gaze from the floor to identify the young man. It took me a moment to recall his awkward, angular countenance, but it dawned on me that he was Crasus' youthful messenger of choice.

"Miss, Crasus instructed me to bear you this note without delay," he told me softly as if fearful he would disturb the distraught household with his words alone.

"Thank you," I mumbled numbly, taking the note with considerably less vigour than I had done so previously. In all honesty, I had entirely forgotten my own and my uncle's affairs recently and could not even muster the enthusiasm to read the missive's contents straight away. However, I headed back to the privacy of my chambers where I knew I could come to terms with the news the Roman commander sent without distractions or questions.

My preoccupied mind needed no less than three attempts to fully grasp the brief collection of sentences that coiled elegantly across the parchment, but finally I realised the outcome of all my strife: Lord Gwrytheyrn had been convicted of his crimes! His influential associates had been fickle, deserting him in his hour of need, perhaps intimidated by the weight of opinion and evidence that opposed his case. At the back of my mind, I was aware of the momentous tidings and knew that the prospect of this conclusion had granted me the tenacity to dream of my future; on the hand, my heart was leaden with a kind of draining fatigue that had set in when I had first laid eyes on Lamorak and realised the extent of his injuries.

Arthur would know exactly what should be done since surely my name could now be cleansed of the tarnish my uncle had blackened it with. I resolved to speak with him the next morning as all matters seem more optimistic when viewed by the first rays of sunlight. Unfortunately, it seemed that I would not escape the evening without some disturbance as my door resounded with a firm knocking. Letting out a soft sigh, I opened the door to find Dagonet standing there with his characteristic kind, yet undeniably sombre expression.

"Will you come down to the tavern with us, Isolde?" he asked sympathetically. "We should not abandon each other at this…difficult time." His considerate manner struck a chord in me for reasons I could not accurately identify and for a few moments, I could not trust my voice to reply coherently.

"How did it happen?" I enquired gently, my eyes wide and trusting as I looked upwards to meet his unwavering gaze. He did not need to ask what I was referring to for the event occupied everyone's mind. There was a pause and I was uncertain if he would wish to tell me the painful truth, even if the imminence had surely abated by now.

"We were weary and on our way home," he began, his words falling as heavily as lead upon my ears. "Lamorak was not as vigilant as he ought to have been…none of us were." The undercurrent of Dagonet's guilt surfaced violently in his last phrase although he maintained a tone that seemed as measured as always. I longed to embrace on a sympathetic impulse, but my natural reserve made me hesitate until the fitting moment had elapsed. Lamorak's misfortune was merely due to chance then and it shocked me to imagine how terrible it must have been for his comrades when fourteen hard won years of survival against the odds were jeopardised by fleeting inattention. "So will you come?" the tall knight pressed eventually, banishing the tense atmosphere for the most part. I consented half-heartedly, as I did not wish to needlessly inconvenience Dagonet and perhaps companionship would boost our optimism and solidarity just a little for the wounded Sarmatian.

He waited patiently and without complaint, but I did nothing much to prepare myself except to wrap a shawl around my shoulders for warmth and replenish the coins in my purse. As we departed, I asked conversationally, "Am I the last to come then?"

Dagonet shrugged noncommittally, "All my brothers who wish to go to the tavern are there. Tristan is not interested and Celia too." I nodded understandingly as the devoted woman did little else but guard over her lover, sometimes forgetting even to eat or drink without prompting. As for the scout, I assumed he would deal with the situation in his own inhumanly stoic way, but I could not repress a curious glance at his chamber door as we passed it.

* * *

The noise emerging from the popular tavern could be heard from quite some distance and I felt a pang of regret for assenting to accompany the knights at the prospect of such a rowdy atmosphere. However, the Sarmatians' table was nestled in a dim corner of the inn and I noticed that the other regular patrons had maintained a deferential gap between them, as if this alone could shield the subdued knights from their jovial revelry. Vanora intercepted us on our way over, enveloping me in a warm embrace as she expressed her pleasure in seeing me at her place of work. I admitted sheepishly to my unease, but she drew me over towards the knights nonetheless.

"Take care of Isolde," she warned the table at large, but casting me a conspiratorial wink. "I'll fetch you a glass of wine, dear." I thanked her sincerely, glad that I was offered an alternative to the pitchers of ale, some of which had already been completely drained by the knights. There was a quiet chorus of greetings, but I could easily determine how inebriated they were by the tell-tale slurring of their words. I slipped onto a bench next to Gawain, who was broodily nursing a tankard with his long golden locks hanging precariously over its rim. There was a noticeable dearth of therapeutic conversation and I searched around for an uncontroversial topic to break the silence, as my upbringing had instructed me. The incessant clamour behind me proved somewhat distracting, so I merely sipped the rich, fruity wine Vanora had placed before me and covertly scrutinised the dour expressions of the men.

"It certainly makes a change to come here," I said at last with a slight sigh.

"Yes, we're surprised that you agreed without my powers of persuasion," Lancelot replied, his flirtatious undertone only a shadow on its usual self, but I accentuated a smile in appreciation of his gesture to partially remedy the gloom.

"It's just a shame that one of us can't be here on account of Rome's orders," Galahad muttered venomously, his knuckles turning white as he clenched the tankard in anger. I truly empathised with the youthful knight and knew that he lacked the self-control of some of his more mature comrades at times and so I, like the majority at our table, subtly ignored this aside. Bors' tongue, however, had been loosened by the free-flowing alcohol and was unfortunately irrepressible.

"Lamorak would want us all to be here tonight, kid" he boomed, entirely missing the black look Galahad threw him for the unwelcome epithet. "Ale's helped us to cope before and if only he would damn well open his eyes for half a minute, he'd be down here like one of Tristan's bloody arrows!"

"After spending time with Celia," Dagonet reminded him pertinently. Bors grunted in reluctant acknowledgement, but gave the distinct impression of what would be his own personal priority by his dismissive toss of his head.

Gawain snorted morosely, "Celia keeps him in check and out of trouble." His tone implied that he longed for the days when Lamorak did not adhere so readily to the constraints imposed by his beloved woman, albeit a mild-mannered one.

Seizing the chance now that they had become more loquacious, I urged, "I'd like what he used to get up to then. I solemnly swear not to tell her." Thus I instigated a steady stream of humorous, yet deeply affectionate anecdotes and the whole company seemed amenable to share some small memory of their friend's former antics.

Once Bors and Lancelot had finished an embarrassingly frank account of Lamorak's first attempt to woo the seamstress, I hastened to inform them of my uncle's successful conviction – news which was met with genuine pleasure and yet another toast. Afterwards, I made my excuses and left the knights to their reminiscences, pleading fatigue. I was glad that my friends appeared slightly more positive than they were prior to this evening, but had no desire to remain right up until Vanora forcibly evicted them from the tavern when the ale supplies ceased. Whilst I wound my way to the door in a snaking path to avoid the more boisterous drinkers, I was startled by the sensation of a hand on my arm.

"Isolde, I'm glad I saw you tonight." It was Morgan with her sparkling blue eyes. She was seated at a small table with a pale young man of dark hair and eyes whom I had never seen before. "This is my son, Mordred," she said by way of introduction, noting the direction of my gaze. I smiled briefly, but was reluctant to linger to socialise, despite my profound admiration for and appreciation of the healer and her prized services. Thankfully, her son was likewise disinclined to idle chatter, acknowledging my presence with only a nod. "I depart tomorrow eve as the fort's healer is on his way home earlier than expected, but I wanted to let you know that a woman like you could be well-suited to healing. Does it run in your family?"

"Why yes," I responded, a little taken aback at this insight. "My mother had some knowledge of it."

Morgan nodded as if content with her own perception. "Being a maid's fine, but if you seek a challenge, come visit Mordred or I." She proceeded to reel off the location of her abode, but I leant her only half an ear since I had no intention of deserting the stable lifestyle I had now adopted whole-heartedly at this fort. Nevertheless, I thanked her sincerely for everything that she had done so generously for my injured friend and bade her and her sullen son a safe journey home.

* * *

By the time I arrived back at the knights' household I was heartily relieved by my foresight in bringing a shawl for the clear night sky was accompanied by the biting chill that characterised the northern climes of the Empire. Obviously hearing my entrance, Hedera came down the stairs to meet me in the hall with displeasure blatantly written across her stern features.

"So you've returned," she snapped, sounding anything but satisfied by this. "There is a _man_ who insists upon speaking with you. He refuses to leave until he has done so, so go to dismiss him instantly if you please." She gestured imperiously to a side room adjoining to the entrance hall, which acted as Hedera's own study.

"A man?" I repeated, dumbfounded before a familiar fear rose like bile in my throat. Could it be another assassin dispatched by my vengeful uncle?

"Yes," the woman confirmed irritably. "And I'll tolerate no more of this here again." Upon that cautionary note, she stalked back upstairs to her private room, grumbling under her breath. For a moment, I remained frozen, my eyes fixed on the door behind which the mysterious visitor lurked. Suddenly an idea occurred to me and I darted after Hedera, back then diverted towards Tristan's room. I would trust in his ability to protect me from harm.

He gave me a curious look when he opened his door at the sound of my knocking, but was too nervous and preoccupied by contemplations of the man's identity to feel self-conscious under his scrutiny. I swiftly relayed the paltry information Hedera had offered me and was grateful when he acted immediately, only delaying to stride over to a great wooden chest to retrieve his dagger. The sight of him so armed filled me with confidence while he led the way back down to the study in silence.

At the door, he waited for me to enter, but I wished to reassure myself of certain matters first. "I do not know who is in there, but please do not use that blade unless it seems unavoidable," I begged hesitantly. "He may be a figure from my past, of course."

"I await your command," he murmured mockingly and I flushed crimson with embarrassment. I decided to take charge again and pushed the door open in a sharp, decisive motion. There was no swish of a blade through the air before me and as my eyes grew accustomed to the gloom inside, I saw the man who remained sitting hunched over in the chair. His general appearance was decidedly dishevelled with unkempt dark hair and soiled garments. His features, however, were strangely familiar beneath the unpleasant grime and with an involuntary gasp, I recognised him as Fransiscus Terentius, the third member of Lord Gwrytheyrn's corrupt trio.

I sensed Tristan tense beside me, poised to reach for his razor sharp blade if the occasion called for such a decisive and lethal course of action, but after the initial shock, it was evident from his posture alone that this defeated man posed no threat to myself or my valiant defender.

The disgraced architect stood up slowly, eyeing Tristan's intimidating presence at my side warily. "Lady Isolde," he began, focusing his attention upon me. I almost recoiled as he took a step towards me for his bloodshot eyes and pitiful state was abhorrent in some indescribable way. The title which he endowed me with rang out incongruously and I wondered if the Sarmatian felt the same when he witnessed this scene. "I ask only for a couple of precious moments in which to press case and if you are still unmoved, I shall leave without another word."

"Why have you come here?" I questioned, detesting the quiver in my voice and hoping that Tristan had not heard it more than the other man.

"Absolve me," Terentius begged sincerely with an equally querulous voice. "I have done wrong, against you and against others, but I pray that you might have mercy upon my wife, who currently bears my child in her womb. I understand if you cannot forgive …" Here he broke off and glanced away. I should have loathed the man with every fibre of my being, but a sense of compassion fought against this when I examined the broken man before me. My indecision must have been plain to read on my countenance for the fugitive knelt and, gently taking my hand, he pressed his lips to my white knuckles. I shut my eyes, willing myself to remember the dead men, including Hadrianus, whose fate had once rested in Terentius' hands. "Isolde, for my family will you go to your friends and tell them I was not guilty of any murder or treachery. I am afraid. I would repay you for an act of altruism thrice over with money, jewels or whatever you desire most!"

Until this critical point in his plea, my soft heart had been succumbing to his humble, silken words, but I snapped my eyes open angrily, withdrawing from his grasp and retorted with all the dignity I could muster, "Do not dare to insult me with offers of your ill-gotten goods. I cannot be bought like any petty criminal you have dealt with in the past!" I resolved to resist his plight coolly, but was afraid that his meek façade might be a mere pretence and so I looked to Tristan in a silent appeal.

It did not go unnoticed. The scout hauled the architect to his feet with a single powerful movement and forcefully slammed the man into the hard wall. I winced at such a display of violence, but made no attempt to halt it although I knew that Tristan would not persist without my tacit agreement. The sight of Tristan's silvery blade at his neck transformed Terentius' expression of startled outrage into sheer, unadulterated fright.

"If you dare to trouble Isolde ever again, _I_ shall ensure you do not live to regret it for long," he threatened in a low, menacing voice and my heart leapt to hear the protectiveness that was intertwined with the danger in his tone. "Go!" With a shove, the knight released my supplicant, who fell to the floor weakly before scrambling out of the room without a backward glance. I breathed a sigh of relief once the peace resumed after those tense moments.

"Thank you, Tristan," I whispered with a spontaneous smile curving my lips. "As usual." Now that he had returned his dagger to its sheath, his typical nonchalance had come back to the fore, concealing the ferocity that lay just beneath. Suddenly, I experience a strong wave of warm emotion as my gaze was irretrievably drawn to the details of his face: the curve of his prominent cheekbones, the contrast between his tan skin and the black ink of his twin tattoos and finally the depths of those striking eyes of his. I ceased to be fully aware of the movements of my own form and it did not seem unnatural to me when we found ourselves standing but a hair's breadth from each other in utter stillness.

I whispered his name, feeling as if I was in a dreamlike land and then he bent his lips towards mine in an instant of mutual passion. His kiss was heated and unrelenting and was at odds with my previous knowledge of his behaviour. I returned his kiss hesitantly at first, but then with blossoming assurance, confident that this mirrored my own longings. When we separated, I realised that everything in our relationship would be irrevocably altered from now on.


	20. Chapter 20

Hello everyone again! First of all I'd like to thank my amazing reviewers for their encouraging words and I hope my readers continue to enjoy the story of course, particularly as the romance is _finally _starting to take shape! Over the course of the next handful of chapters, the plot will reach a bit of a crossroads, hence why this update has taken longer than usual. I simply wanted to ensure everything would work out correctly on the grand scheme of things. Please do review as it really makes my day! In particular, I would like to know what you think for Isolde's reponse to the upcoming events - do you think they are realistic given her personality? Of course though, any feedback you may have is greatly appreciated and I will do my best to follow any suggestions.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own the _King Arthur _film or any of its characters. This is written solely for entertainment purposes.

* * *

**Chapter 20**

**The Dark and The Light **

On the morning following my encounter with Fransiscus Terentius and, more notably in my humble, biased opinion, my spontaneous kiss with Tristan, I felt strangely relieved. Although my relationship with him formed only a certain proportion of my concerns, it seemed as if some weighty shackles that had previously impeded the true expression of my innermost emotions had now been dispelled by that bold, but not at all unwelcome action on the scout's behalf. The just renewal of my status as an innocent victim of political machinations after my uncle's conviction also contributed greatly to the minor transformation I underwent that was apparently evident in my bearing as a weary Arthur commented cryptically when we crossed paths by chance: "You are a free woman now, Isolde." The significance of this statement was not lost on me, being essentially true, but, I admitted with a coy smile, I was now helplessly enchanted with a certain member of the Sarmatian company – fetters as strong and unyielding as any judicial binding.

Currently, my thoughts always strayed in either of two distinctly diverse paths: sympathetic anxiety for Lamorak or doe-eyed admiration for his enigmatic comrade, Tristan. Wholly inexperienced as I was, I could not bear to contemplate the possibility that our stolen kiss was merely a regrettable mistake, instead of a culmination of numerous slow-burning sparks from prior encounters. Yet Tristan had not expressed any intentions towards me before or at least, not in any manner I had recognised. Try as I might, it was difficult to envisage what aspect of my character or appearance would appeal so potently to a dangerous warrior like him. Regardless of these uncertainties, I could not deny that my own pulse raced and an almost painful sensation engulfed me when I was subjected to one of his signature intense gazes or touch. These alien feelings did not always seem to offer the liberation or audacity I aspired to, for even now, I did not believe I possessed the courage to seek the man myself to either engage him in a discussion, or, and I blushed to imagine it, instigate another kiss.

On this occasion, my unlikely ally was Hedera and my vague aversion to her assumed a more mild guise. Her tone had been softened just noticeably, probably out of surprising deference for my closeness to both Lamorak and Celia, when she instructed me to gather the dirty laundry. It was certainly a mundane, rather unpleasant task for such a large number of athletic men, but the sense of routine would be beneficial after so much upheaval. Besides, the job afforded me the chance to tentatively test the waters of my fragile bond with Tristan under the protective cover of my role in the household.

Naturally, I gravitated towards the scout's room first of all with the hefty basket wedged securely against my hip. I wished to ensure that I did not embarrass myself overmuch if he did not appear to reciprocate the attraction I bore him and so I took a few moments to settle my features and breathing as much as possible, wiping my palms surreptitiously on the skirt of my dress.

"Tristan," I called through the door, privately marvelling at my control over my voice. "I have come to collect any washing you may have." I waited with my ear almost pressed up against the rough wood, listening for any audible signs of his presence, but was disappointed. Just as I was quietly berating my misfortune at having missed him, the door swung open. Tristan was dressed in his usual casual fashion, but as I sheepishly jerked my head away from the threshold, I saw that his customary haphazard braids were missing. Perhaps that was why he had taken so long to answer me, but I realised I had been foolish to suppose this exemplary tracker would have made any detectable noise to betray his phantom-like motions. He wordlessly stepped back to admit me and I murmured some brief, superfluous words of gratitude, which luckily were largely ignored. Any intentions of confronting him to reveal the true extent of my affections dried up on my tongue, so I was forced to settle for an uncertain waiting game as I busied myself with my genuine task. My pace was deliberately unhurried – a factor which did not seem to escape the notice of such a sharp-eyed man for when my glance alighted on him, I saw his subtle amusement quite plainly, whether it was derived from mockery or some semblance of fondness.

When I had meticulously folded and refolded the last soiled shirt, I compelled myself to enquire civilly at last, "Are you well?"

The corners of his mouth quirked upwards in a captivating way that I interpreted as patronising, predatory and cordial in equal measures before he approached me with a leisurely gait. In my self-conscious anxiety, he seemed to take an age to reach me until we stood in intimately close proximity by his window. "I am," he responded shortly, apparently now no more willing to engage in frivolous small talk than before, since a deafening silence descended upon us that enunciated my quickening breath. "And you?" came his own quiet enquiry finally, his eyebrow cocked. My surprise was palpable and consequently, concealed the ridiculous surge of pleasure I experienced for the most part.

"Fine," I whispered and repressed the sensual and practical urge to wet my dry lips. He locked gazes with me and as he bent almost imperceptibly down towards me. I raised a trembling hand involuntarily that lightly grazed across the prominent ridges of his cheekbone, provoking a responsive flash across his entrancingly dark irises.

"Isolde?" an impatient male voice called from outside. The spell was shattered instantaneously and I literally leapt backwards as if Tristan's flesh had scalded me.

"Galahad," the scout muttered darkly and I nodded mutely, unconsciously smoothing my tresses in a comical indication of my guilt at being caught in my situation. Before either of us could reply, the young knight entered, which further intensified the crimson blush on my cheeks

"You're wanted by the healer," he spoke coolly, looking with narrowed, suspicious eyes between the unlikely pair of us and since I knew he was not wantonly cruel or harsh, his tone jolted me back to reality. "He's with Lamorak now." I did not miss the dismissal and made to leave without either a word or second glance at Tristan, although I secretly regretted the untimely intrusion greatly. However, before I had departed from earshot on my way to abandon the laundry and attend Lamorak, I heard Galahad's heated demand, "What are you playing at, Tristan?" His choice of verb unsettled me a little and it rung uneasily in my mind as I hurried to the healer's aid and was unable to catch the scout's response to this accusation.

* * *

The fort's resident healer, who had recently returned from business, fortuitously met me outside the knight's bedroom in order to equip me with a specific set of instructions. He had implicitly trusted Morgan's recommendation of me, which was both a small source of pride and sizeable weight of responsibility to me, but these thoughts were secondary to my growing dread as the man outlined Lamorak's declining welfare: "The wound has degraded significantly despite the range of herbs, poultices and oils I have at my disposal. I fear the knight may now be too weak to fend off death yet another time." The bluntness of his warning shocked me, but it was evident that he regarded me merely as a temporary assistant, not as a friend of the patient. I desperately wished to cry out in disbelief against the injustice of the injured man's plight and healer patted my arm sympathetically in light of my turmoil, but this thankfully stirred me to act. I must demonstrate the fortitude and care that Lamorak and Celia both undoubtedly deserved.

As it happened, the precarious health of the Sarmatian especially required the undivided attention of the healer for the rest of that day and past sunset. I did not contemplate indulging in either food or rest at that time. I flitted in and out and would not have realised the passage of time if it had not have been for the growing light of dawn that started to illuminate Celia's locks during the brief period in which the healer, whose name was Bergan, had decided to relinquish himself to a restorative nap. When Lamorak's breathing grew steadily harsher and more laboured, I could scarcely restrain myself from leaving the patient's bedside at a frenzied run to summon the healer back and was stopped only due to being mindful of Celia, who had herself slipped into a fitful sleep in her chair. The decidedly grim set of Bergan's features spoke volumes and I asked him furtively if it was time yet to gather all of Lamorak's friends and well-wishers to his side. Something deep within me broke when the healer nodded and confirmed my worst fears with such a simple, commonplace gesture.

I found Arthur and his knights at breakfast around the round table, but my pale, drawn face made them jump to their feet with a muted, but inevitable sense of horror. When I had forced myself to actually voice the ill tidings that I was loath to bring to anyone, they swiftly left to go to their comrade's presence without questioning me at all. Bors first headed home to bring Vanora back with remarkable alacrity for such a large man and I was slightly comforted by his lover's attendance because, in spite of her own grief, she kindly embraced both myself and Celia. I could not decide if it was a shame or mercy that Lamorak never once opened his eyes before he drew his final, shuddering breath, but the fact that ten of us held that last vigil for him seemed testament to his caring, honest heart. The unbearable silence reigned supreme for what could have been mere seconds or indeterminable minutes.

Then Celia began to weep, dropping Lamorak's limp hand onto the bed sheets and hiding her countenance in her palms. Her narrow shoulders shook, wracked by the engulfing sobs that her weakened body could not resist. As I was nearer to her than Vanora, I mechanically wrapped my arms around her unyielding form, but I struggled to remove my gaze from my friend's dead body as if I was fruitlessly hoping the stillness was simply a horrible illusion and that some insignificant, minute indication of life would still be clinging to the fringes. Not one of us was able to speak out of the devastation that unified us completely, regardless of trivial disputes or differences that had arisen in the past few days. I became aware that I was crying for the Sarmatian warrior only when I felt the telling cool trails of moisture sliding unstoppably down my the hollows of my cheeks.

On the opposite side of the bed, Arthur knelt stiffly and behind him, I could see Bors numbly clutching Vanora in his brawny arms. I watched the commander with emptiness in my chest, almost like I had ceased to partake in this sorrowful scene and distantly wondered at the few glistening tears that rolled down his noble face too, that was so clearly tormented by grief. Although I protectively allowed Celia to bury her head into my shoulder - our contrasting fair and dark hair a striking combination – I had never recollected feeling so very vulnerable. I longed for someone to embrace and reassure me instead, selfish as this hidden thought was. It was not strength that kept me at my friend's side for as long as she needed me then, but actually an immobilising frailty of character that would have inspired waves of guilt in any other circumstances.

This was not my first encounter with human mortality at any rate, but nevertheless Lamorak's death could never have been properly prepared for emotionally despite the lengthy illness he had suffered. What potentially seemed worse in my opinion was that Lamorak might not have been lying there, icy to the touch and virtually devoid of all his distinctive vitality, if not for a peculiar twist of fate. Any other of his beloved comrades could have been so grievously wounded and slowly lost their last momentous battle with death – even Tristan.


	21. Chapter 21

I am pleased to finally present the next chapter, which focuses first of all on the passing of Lamorak and then on Isolde and Tristan. I hope you enjoy it and understand the motives behind Isolde's actions, but feel free to suggest any improvements. Reviews, of course, would be received very gratefully!

**Disclaimer: **I do not own the 'King Arthur' film or any of its characters. This is written solely for entertainment purposes.

* * *

**Chapter 21**

**Funeral of a Friend**

Vanora and I instinctively assumed responsibility for Celia and under the guise of her guardians, we left Lamorak's eerily still deathbed after a period of reflection that was testament tour innate respect for the fallen knight. She herself did not resist when we accompanied her home into the care of her solemn father, having descended into a somewhat protective trance. In all honesty, I could not decipher which of Celia's two drastically disparate moods was worse to witness, for her silent despair wrenched at our weary hearts as forcefully as her plaintive wailing. The seamstress stumbled repeatedly over the roughened surface of the road and I tightened my grip on her forearm in passive solicitude for her physical wellbeing; then, her emotional welfare was hopelessly forsaken and only the passage of time might heal those unseen scars.

"Thank you, girls," Celia's father said gruffly when we reached their shop. "Will you remain here for a moment? I've something to tell you." Although neither of us were young enough to be considered mere 'girls' in polite society, I supposed we must have resembled lost children when we arrived on his doorstep and even Vanora's strong façade did not completely hide her grief. Vanora gave my hand a comforting squeeze as we awaited the old man's return, but I noticed that her other palm rested tenderly over the curve of her pregnant stomach. She would have the eternal love of that infant's father and the welcome distraction the babe itself would bring not long hence – as yet, I had no such solace, even if I might sometimes dream of finding it in unlikely quarters.

When Celia's father came back from settling our friend in her room to rest, he began candidly, "I intend to take Celia away for a time. Her mother's sister dwells in a settlement further south and there she may recuperate as much as she is able, away from the memories of this place." Initially, we were speechless and uncomprehending; we had lost one friend, but now must another of our dearest companions be lost to us?

"Celia has friends here, who'd be willing to support her unstintingly," Vanora replied with a steely, albeit brittle edge to her tone and I internally applauded the truth of her sentiment. Without doubt, Celia would need her family's devotion now more than ever in the absence of her lover, but we could not conceive that she would wish to distance herself from the ones to whom she had bonded so affectionately to during her blossoming relationship with Lamorak.

"I am aware of that," he said heavily, almost resentfully as if we were impediments to his daughter's happiness. "Do not believe that I am ungrateful for your support, but I only seek to ensure Celia's wellbeing. However, I shall do no more than advise her and she need not trouble herself until after the funeral." All of us were aware that no common consensus could be reached on this important matter and that the decision would lie ultimately upon Celia's shoulders, so we took our leave courteously. Outside, the cloudless sky above seemed incongruous and distasteful to my eyes and I was not sorry when I had reached the familiar, homely confines of the knights' household; nothing stirred within earshot and I sequestered myself without reproach in my chambers. Finally, I took stock of the situation at hand and I simply wept without attempting to stem the flow of tears, sinking gracelessly to the dusty, unswept floor. My hair which had recently been smooth and luscious, now wholly shielded my face in an unkempt torrent of curls. The heights of happiness and freedom which I had attained since my arrival at this northern Roman stronghold had been temporarily demolished by the passing of such a valiant and generous Sarmatian as well as the prospect of the separation from a most compassionate confidante.

* * *

Two days passed before the inevitable occasion of Lamorak's funeral became a dreaded reality for us and the strain of the previous few days were etched heavily on the faces of the man's brothers-in-arms. There had not been a great deal of interaction between any of us, but once or twice, an outpouring of grief morphed into anguished, often directionless attacks. These were largely maintained behind the privacy of closed doors and were rapidly diffused by Arthur whose calming presence was an invaluable aid at this time. His burden appeared to cause him physical pain as well as emotional torment for I often gazed pitifully at his haggard countenance or aggrieved grimaces. It was not completely evident whether he was wounded more by the death of a member of his company or the fractious mood that threatened bonds of over fourteen years old.

Whilst on a visit to check on Celia's morose state with Vanora, I was informed that this tense atmosphere was not novel, but perhaps more virulent than ever before for one pressing reason: "Lamorak was so very close to obtaining his freedom. The knights all contemplate their futures now, even if they don't admit to considering anything other than wenches, ale and bloodshed." She could have confidence that her own fate would be intertwined with that of Bors, either here in the forts of Britain or on the wild steppes of Sarmatia. I too had wondered how these men could just return to their former lives that would surely be so alien to them now, forgetting the fellowship that linked them.

The funeral itself was to take place in the cemetery that lay in the shadow of the fort's walls – perhaps a lasting symbol of his escape from Roman dominion where death was but an alternative path to freedom. I alone elected to accompany Celia, so that she might have an ally in her bereavement and Bors would have his own stalwart companion at his side. I felt as though I had expended all my tears and Celia herself was not crying as we made our way to the graveyard. Our fine dresses attracted curious eyes as we traversed the fort's busier quarters, but we paid them no heed and nobody sought to interfere, potentially due to the looming presence of Dagonet and Tristan.

There was little ceremony in the sad affair, but Vanora steadied her beautiful voice enough to sing a haunting elegy that struck all the mourners keenly. I was unable to comprehend that Lamorak's own body was in the coffin that was lowered ritually into the damp earth by Bors, Lancelot and Galahad. Celia let out a slight whimper as the coffin struck the base of the grave with a gentle thud, but otherwise retained a façade of a dignified woman, mourning for her brave warrior. There was a strange finality in that moment and I cast my glance at the commander, whose lips moved in silent prayer before he unobtrusively crossed himself in a pious gesture that went unnoticed by Bors, who would had ordinarily mocked it endlessly. The scout who so readily commanded my own attention was rigid and immobile as a marble statue of a demigod or emperor and he did not meet my gaze. Each man was bidding Lamorak farewell in his own private fashion and I wished to offer up a prayer for the fallen knight, but it seemed that I had forgotten how. At last I simply murmured, "Be at peace." I had been indebted to Lamorak as well as to all his comrades both for my very life and liberty, but there was a good deal more to our bond than mere compunction – loyalty and affection existed in harmony.

Next the cool earth was shovelled over the coffin's surface until it had piled into a curved mound that marked out Lamorak's final resting place here in a foreign land. Gawain and Dagonet themselves had chosen to fulfil this physical task and the exertion seemed to offer them a welcome channel for their grief. When the knight's sword had been plunged into the ground nearby to denote the warrior's grave, the mourners drifted away slowly until only myself and Celia remained. She knelt down and hesitantly stretched out her trembling fingers to graze the surface of the piled soil as if she could reach out to her betrothed via this medium.

"I asked myself whether I regretted falling in love with Lamorak today," she told me softly with a bitter, humourless smile. "It was a foolish thought; I could never repent wishing to be at his side always, but minor trivialities haunt me here and there. The others probably told you that I rejected Lamorak's advances twice before finally deigning to acquaint myself with this stranger from a distant, exotic land…such a silly, girlish fear that was! If I had not and had only followed my heart, we would have had just a little more precious time in each other's company. Now I believe I shall visit my aunt for a while and wait until the recollections grow less agonising." I could find nothing coherent to reply to such a profound, unsettling remark and so I knelt down beside her, wrapping an arm around her slender frame, yet berated myself for my inability to relieve her pain as one could reduce physical symptoms with concoctions of herbs.

The pair of us had spent over an hour at the gravesite in pensive silence, surrounded by the graves of Sarmatians, Britons and Romans alike. Therefore, when I returned home, sleep came surprisingly easily to me, so much so that I scarcely had the presence of mind to divest myself of my formal gown and scant jewellery before I fell into a dreamless slumber even prior to the onset of evening.

* * *

Consequently, I awoke in the midst of night and the vividness of the constellations and crescent moon against the dark blanket of the sky indicated to me that dawn was still a long way off. The chill on my bar arms roused me to full alertness, but had a distinct fortifying quality that provoked me to slip on a light robe and leave my chambers barefoot. I decided to take advantage of the fresh air and peace of the overlooked courtyard; it would provide a form of solitude conducive to my reflective, sorrowful state of mind.

The thrill of such a midnight venture did not register with me today, but I relished the icy sensation of the cracked flagstones beneath my feet and I fancied that I was moving in a waking dream. After a short while, some instinct or unconscious sense made me turn and I watched wide-eyed as Tristan stepped through the door into the courtyard. His expression or bearing gave no clue as to whether he expected to find me out here, but I had no difficulty recognising the mutual grief. The scout's face appeared more unguarded by moonlight, which somehow invoked in me a powerful wave of tender emotion, especially since I had been verging on the precarious edge of vulnerability since the funeral ceremony. I hastily blinked back my tears as I was glad that he had joined me in spite of everything else, but some tears escaped the sweep of my lashes, glinting luminously against my fair complexion. Suddenly, his sight was trained penetratingly on me and he reached up to brush away these tears with a rough, calloused thumb. I was unspeakably moved by the sensitivity of his action, but he drew his hand away almost as swiftly. "He lived and died a warrior," he said bluntly, referring to his comrade and countryman's honour. This could not offer me solace for I lived for more than just the raw bloodshed of the battlefield. "Never forget that," he continued fiercely and I realised that he no longer spoke of Celia's dead lover alone, but also of himself and the others. Without allowing me any respite to ponder his words, his bowed lips crashed down on my unprepared ones. It was hardly a tender, romantic kiss, but was again full of fire, need and urgency, which I impulsively responded to, particularly spurred on by Celia's haunting words of regret for lost hours, days or years with her beloved. I felt a moment like this was immensely valuable, even if the future remained fragile and uncertain.

The sense of stillness that enveloped us when we broke apart, resting our foreheads together for proximity and I was encouraged to lay aside my weariness, sadness and fear during that passionate scene. Love genuinely was a cure for all ills and my feelings for the man soared with renewed vigour. Tristan consumed my mind and I presented no opposition when, after he examined my trusting, longing expression, he led me indoors again with a gentle, but insistent hand. At his door, I realised that I was ready and willing to spend the rest of the night with Tristan because although we needed the comfort of one another at that time, I had never experienced such sentiments of blind love for any man before. For this fleeting occasion, I truly believed he could make things right once more.


	22. Chapter 22

First of all, I'd like to thank my reviewers or their lovely, encouraging reviews – it truly makes this worthwhile! This chapter is somewhat of a bridge for the next stage of the story, but I wanted to focus on the way Tristan and Isolde's relationship is changing. As always, enjoy and your comments or ideas would be gratefully received!

**Disclaimer: **I do not own _King Arthur _or any of the characters in the film. This fanfic is written solely for entertainment purposes.

* * *

**Chapter 22**

**Bliss**

I would have liked to say that I was awoken in Tristan's bed next morning with a loving caress or brush of the scout's lips upon my brow; but in fact, he roused me by shaking my sleeping form by the shoulder. As I was blearily returning to consciousness, knowledge of the previous night struck me like the forceful gust of a storm and yet, I certainly did not regret my decision, however swayed it had been by the recent tragedy. It had been utterly truthful in motivation and I was glad my courage had been amply rewarded. My entire body felt foreign to me, as if it was not my own, but it was not unpleasant in the slightest.

"Isolde," Tristan called softly and my heart leapt curiously at the sound of my name on his tongue. He was sitting on the edge of the cot, only half dressed in his worn boots and breeches, and it brought an unbidden, coy smile to my lips to see his bare, sculpted torso in the light of day. "I'm going to the training fields now." I was immeasurably glad that he had woken me instead of slipping off without trace and somehow the situation between us did not seem unnatural to me, although I would have been scandalised by such behaviour but a few months beforehand.

"Tristan," I whispered, unintentionally mirroring his own simple greeting. "Is it early still?" I enquired, sitting upright and clutching the sheets around me out of sheer habit. He nodded in affirmation as he tugged a dark tunic over his head and I tentatively reached out to run my fingers lightly down his back, crisscrossed as it was with scars and welts. I could not entirely relieve myself of my native bashfulness and I coloured lightly when he turned to look at me with unguarded, blazing eyes. He leant towards me and our lips met in a passionate, but tenderer reminder of the intimacy which we had only just shared. I could not ever imagine becoming completely accustomed to that wonderful feeling. After his silent, but meaningful farewell gesture, the scout gathered his effects with swift efficiency and left me in the comfort of his Spartan room. His absence seemed to dispel the warm sensations of contentment that engulfed me and I dressed in a hurried fashion, tidied the coverings of the bed and departed to the confines of my own chamber in order to ready myself for the day.

Tristan had not lied when he admitted it was early and I realised that I still had at most a couple of hours grace before the rest of the household would rise. Therefore, I succumbed to the luxury of the long, soothing bath whilst I recounted all that had now changed in my life. The fact that I had now taken a lover, especially one as enigmatically captivating as Tristan, seemed so very alien to me that eventually I merely shook my head with a wry, self-deprecating smile. It was strange how good fortune was always inextricably intertwined with some brand of calamity, but I hoped that I could have the power to bring Tristan the genuine, unadulterated happiness that had evidently eluded him thus far.

I resolved to return to my household duties, at least in some useful capacity, for I had learnt that solitude and idleness could breed further sorrow; Lamorak himself had never been a man prone to apathy or despondency. As I went to and fro, bearing dirty linen and wielding brooms, I tried to suppress the uneasy notion that Hedera privately entertained suspicions for I was unnerved by her beady eyes following me, like Zhiva's intense predatory focus prior to a kill. In actual fact, I felt compelled to examine my reflection thoroughly in a pail of water to ensure I bore no visible abnormal marks, but since I could physically see nothing out of the ordinary, I was forced to accept either that it was due to an unnatural skill of perception on the woman's part or that I was just too self-conscious.

When midday loomed and I was beginning to long for a brief respite, I asked Hedera if I might fetch some lunch for the knights as they were still honing their battle skills on the training fields. "I suppose they shall need something," Hedera consented grudgingly, "But Jols is able to attend to their needs instead."

Summoning up all my resolve, I countered, "It would pose no trouble for me. I had intended to take some fresh air during my own break anyway and can easily take the knights a basket of food. I am certain it would not go amiss in their eyes." I maintained steady eye contact with the steely mistress of the household, hoping that luck would side with me in this dispute of wills.

"Very well," she sighed reluctantly. "If you are indeed so eager to be gone, you might as well perform this one trivial task." Although her decision pleased me, I took care to refrain from demonstrating this emotion to her for fear of confirming any misgivings she resentfully held over my head. Before she could spring another duty upon me, I set off for the warm, bustling kitchen to collect nourishment for seven ravenous knights. Seven now: such a small, unimposing fraction of the original Sarmatian cavalry remained in the last year of their military service. It was no wonder Tristan had closed his heart off in the face of such almighty loss and I was truly humbled by deepening connection he had finally permitted to develop between the pair of us. I resolved to nurture it with all the care and sensitivity I possessed for to lose what had been gained so gradually would have broken me utterly.

With the help of the benevolent cook, I gathered a suitable assortment of freshly baked loaves, creamy cheese wrapped up in muslin cloth and sizeable joints of red meat that would satiate even the knights' seemingly boundless appetites. We momentarily deliberated over whether to add a pitcher of ale to the two weighty baskets, but then thought better of such an action both because I would scarcely be able to lift the baskets with any further additions and alcohol had the unfortunate tendency to inebriate some of the knights into a state of overt belligerence. I inwardly cursed the gluttony of the men as I struggled all the way to the training grounds at the edge of the fort, but could not help but laugh when a gang of Bors' children approached me to pester for a share in their beloved father's lunch. I told them he would have my hide if I did not provide generous enough portions – a threat that did not surprise them, but the disappointment was plain on their innocent, slightly dirty faces.

"What're you lot doing?" Vanora shouted across the street as she emerged from the front door of her house. "You've just had a meal! Don't go begging poor Isolde for more." The sight of her heavily pregnant body struck a chord in me and I froze in sudden disquiet. Was it possible that I might be with child? My limited education had never concentrated on such matters as it was assumed that these were secrets to be discovered only when a woman was about to be wed in my former society and then scarcely at all. I toyed with the idea of confiding in Vanora for some maternal advice and knowledge, but the redhead had already herded her brood back indoors before I could catch her attention. I would simply have to devise an alternative plan of action for if it was possible that I had conceived a child last night, I was not confident that I could cope with such an immense responsibility, particularly when I wagered that Tristan would not be as happy as Bors to raise a bastard child of his own. As much as I trusted Vanora's discretion, I knew intuitively that Tristan would not regard the advertisement of our relationship favourably at this premature stage and so perhaps a fleeting visit to the local apothecary might serve my purposes better in fact.

* * *

My arrival at the training grounds went unheeded initially despite the fact that my uniquely feminine dress and lack of lethal weaponry should have made me a rather conspicuous and rare sight there. I hovered at the edge of the field, side-stepping a pair of Roman soldiers who were practising their swordplay with wooden blades. I swiftly sought out the Sarmatians, in particular Tristan himself as he engaged Gawain in a mock combat. The others were nearby, either as reclining spectators or honing their own military skills with, I noticed with a strangely proud sensation, their real weapons of choice, not mere wooden pretences. I could not help but marvel at the distinct styles of Gawain and Tristan: the former wielding a formidable pair of axes, lunging with mighty swings each time, whilst the scout moved with an entrancing grace, economical yet powerful arcs of his curved blade to parry or undermine his sparring partner's guard.

"I take it you don't intend to eat all that food yourself, Isolde," Galahad quipped as he made his way towards me, eyeing the baskets I had set down at my feet with great interest. Lancelot and Arthur also gravitated towards me in the younger knight's wake, unwilling to miss the opportunity of a restorative meal. I smiled at them in turn, drawing my gaze away from my lover with not inconsiderable difficulty. They were visibly wearied from their exertions and I wondered perhaps if their training had been additionally strenuous in an attempt to forget the absence of one of their company.

"Galahad, you must learn some manners when addressing a lady," Lancelot teased with a smirk on his lips. "You should ask her how she fares." The darkly handsome knight turned to me with a look of pleasant enquiry and I thought it typical to see that he was the least dishevelled out of all the knights, although I knew that he fought with a virtually unparalleled ferocity when provoked by necessity or amicable competition.

"I do not fare badly, sir," I replied, playing along with his jest as I began to unpack some of the provisions I had so laboriously brought for them. "I hope your exercises are going well." Once I had sorted everything out to my satisfaction, I stood back to allow the hungry men free access to the food. Grateful silence prevailed for a short time as the three of them started their meal, settling themselves on a neighbouring bench for comfort.

"Isolde, I do not wish to trouble you further," Arthur warned me gently, "I've been sent further news of Gwrytheyrn's fate. Do you wish to hear of what will become of him?" I shuddered and shook my head without any hesitation. I harboured no desire to discover what the future held either for my uncle or for the repugnant architect I had more recently encountered. Besides, it seemed like a veritable lifetime since the dramatic revelations with all the judicial and political repercussions that the situation had engendered, especially since Lamorak's last days had rightly been prioritised. Tactful as always, the benevolent commander broached the subject no more and our select group was augmented by all four of the remaining Sarmatians, all of whom were disgruntled to varying degrees about not having been granted first choice from the baskets.

Noticing that I had not salvaged anything from amongst the communal lunch myself, Dagonet urged me, "Here, eat something." He sent Bors a quelling warning glance as the stocky knight reached in for second helpings and I quickly retrieved a little bread, despite my appetite having somewhat evaporated on account of my niggling concerns over the possibility of a pregnancy and Arthur's well-intentioned probing question. Then I skirted around the conversing knights to where the scout was reclining peaceably against a nearby fence post, eager for his therapeutic, quiet company, and was pleasantly surprised both by Tristan's acceptance of my public association with him and the lack of attention the others paid us since I had been ready to fend off some ribbing from his comrades. He nodded in acknowledgement of me before continuing to gnaw the final scraps off a chicken leg in an almost animalistic fashion. I felt the urge to nestle close to him, rest my head on his shoulder or plant a loving kiss on his cheek, but, of course, I understood that these were currently mere fancies that would have far overstepped the mark in reality. It crossed my mind to ask him if he could enlighten me about guarding against unwanted pregnancies, but I seriously doubted how such an impassive man could have stumbled across knowledge of this ilk.

"You look troubled," Tristan observed curtly and I started from my reverie, not having perceived his analytical gaze. I swallowed the remainder of my midday meal before giving a response, partly because I recognised this as a perfect opportunity to enquire about my anxieties.

"No, I'm fine," I replied with a crooked smile to strengthen my words, but afterwards deigned to concede, "I just have a lot on my mind."

The scout shook his head lightly, his foremost tresses of dark hair falling attractively in front of his countenance. "Women," he muttered under his breath, but I sensed no true malice or venom underlying it and knew he had intended me to hear it. Indeed, his humorously predictable comment brought a modest yet genuine grin to my lips, as if he could neither do nor speak wrongly from my perspective.

"Men!" I exclaimed in a similarly hushed tone and I delighted when he cocked an eyebrow challengingly at me, but his mouth quirked briefly into a gratifying smile. Although I would have liked to have remained there for the rest of the day, I had tasks to accomplish before my leisure could resume, including braving the curiosity of the apothecary on the journey back home. However, at least now, I felt momentarily blissful enough to tackle whatever obstacles impeded my desired path.


	23. Chapter 23

I'd just like to thank you all for the reviews and story alerts – it is wonderful to know that you are interested in my story and so please continue to read and review! I hope you do not feel disappointed with this next chapter!

**Disclaimer: **I do not own the _King Arthur film _or any of its characters. This is written purely for entertainment purposes.

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**Chapter 23**

**Escaping Pain**

"Afternoon, Isolde. It is a pleasure to see my wonderful nurse again," the healer said by way of a friendly greeting as I hesitantly stepped into the shop. I tried hard to suppress a frown of disappointment; I had hoped to be served by his female assistant, or someone with whom I was less closely acquainted at any rate. "Is anything the matter?"

"No, I am completely fine," I answered with breezy haste. "I am seeking some guidance though… about precautions to prevent a woman from begetting an infant." I could not control the rosy blush that coloured my pale cheeks, a hue which deepened significantly when the man fixed me with a bland, but unmistakeably probing gaze. "I am merely curious and acknowledge that I am ignorant about such… feminine concerns. Herbs interest me and it would be useful to know in case another woman asks me for advice." The trivial white lies tumbled from my lips with inept rapidity, but he either was convinced by my assurances of personal innocence or determined it was not his rightful place to pry into his clients' affairs.

"Certainly, I shall demonstrate how to prepare a draught," he consented with a kind smile, before briefly darting into an adjoining room to retrieve the appropriate motley herbs for the brew. I watched with nervous attentiveness as he instructed me on the relative quantities of the potent components and the techniques for blending them into an effective mixture. The final product both appeared and smelt deeply unappetising, but I was nevertheless very grateful when he decanted the draught into a dainty stoppered ceramic vessel for me to take away. "The most vital ingredient is the small measure of the seeds of the wild carrot – not especially difficult to come by if one knows where to look, but it does share a rather unfortunate resemblance to the poison hemlock. Would you like a supply of these for more doses? In case several women from the fort require your services, of course," he corrected himself smoothly, seeming to have genuinely forgotten my story for a fleeting moment and wishing to spare me from any inadvertent mortification. I nodded sheepishly and departed as soon as was acceptably courteous to do so, now equipped with a brew that could offer me peace of mind. The fact that I had incidentally acknowledged my own inclination to continue to share Tristan's bed did not surprise me in the slightest any more.

Once I had covertly smuggled the healer's preparation past Hedera and into the seclusion of my own room, I carefully consigned the supply of crucial seeds to the bottom of my chest of possessions for safekeeping. I removed the stopper from the bottle of the potion, all the while holding my breath so that I would not be put off by the abhorrent scent, and then muttered with considerable grim irony, "Cheers." As if inspired by Bors during one of his notoriously heavy drinking sessions, I downed the draught in a single go. He surely would have been much amused by my action and the expression of disgust on my visage that accompanied it.

* * *

Several days elapsed without many noteworthy occurrences, but with each passing day I felt my bond with Tristan growing deeper and stronger. I tried to spend an increasing period of time with him, although this often meant in the twilight hours when we were both free from our daily duties and unhindered by inquisitive eyes or mocking tongues. I acted with bolstered confidence, feeling more secure in his attentions than I had ever encountered before and I inwardly revelled in the sense of liberation this bestowed upon me.

However, there were some things that even he could not assist me in or alleviate the sadness. Celia and her father were leaving the town today with no indication of when the seamstress might feel sufficiently ready to return to the seat of her ill-starred romance. Our parting would be fraught with emotion and I scarcely knew what would be appropriate to say as bade an uncertain farewell to each other. We had vowed to meet by the imposing gates of the fort and although I arrived early in anticipation, Celia still did not appear well after our agreed time. I began to hope that she had retracted her unfortunate decision to seek refuge at her aunt's home in the south.

"Isolde," Celia called to attract my wavering attention as she hastened towards me. A smile lit up my face, but I tried to avoid noticing her diminishing, waif-like figure and the dark circles under her eyes that looked like sketchily painted streaks against her complexion. "Forgive my tardiness. Father was bartering our passage south on a merchant's wagon."

"Is that not leaving matters until the last possible moment?" I jested gently, shaking my head in mock dismay. "Was the merchant willing to take passengers after all?"

"Mercifully, yes," the seamstress replied with a sigh. However, there was no sign that she was troubled by second thoughts and a lack of resolve to carry out her family's plans. "It was negotiated at a price of course, but a ride in a cart is greatly more preferable to traversing the roads on foot." I nodded sympathetically and watched as the aforementioned merchant's goods wagon rattled past to the fort's gate, pulled by an immense roan mare. The driver halted shortly to consult in a low voice with the pair of Roman guards on duty there.

"Are you sure that the man has consented to bear you?" I asked Celia, alarmed that her father had bartered with a crook willing to take their coin and then leave his part of the bargain unfulfilled.

"We agreed that I should meet them just outside the walls, so that I might…say goodbye. Besides, my father is seated alongside the man and would hardly allow me to suffer such an injustice. You should not fret so," Celia chided me, seeming amused at my perpetual anxiety.

"How can I not?" I asked rhetorically with a sad smile. Remembering the gift that I had bought for my departing friend, I delicately withdrew it from my purse. "Here, I would like you to take this." She accepted the slim apple wood box and instantly opened it. I was gratified when she gasped, running her fingers over the contours of the finely-engraved silver thimble and the accompanying set of needles of various sizes and types. Her subsequent embrace meant more to me than even the most eloquent expression of gratitude and I was not ashamed of the tears that flooded my vision.

As she drew back to observe me, she spoke with a trusting honesty, "I wish I did not have to depart, Isolde, but I am no longer strong enough to remain. If I linger now, I fear I shall never be able to leave and simply lose my mind from regret and sorrow. I hope you find the true happiness I was denied; God knows you of all people deserve it." I squeezed her cool, slender hand in a sign of both choked appreciation and deep affection and then, with a erect posture akin to her former bearing, Celia turned and proceeded out of the gates to where her father and passage awaited her. I retained faith that someday her spirit would be restored afresh and even that the kindly seamstress' path might lead her back to the fort I called my home.

Hedera stipulated that I must work later that same evening for I had apparently been both physically and mentally absent from my duties as maid recently – an unfortunate fact that won me no favours. It was disappointing since I had wished to seek Tristan's strength and comfort as soon as possible, but I accepted her decision in obedient contrition for I recognised the truth of her rebuke. However, I was free to converse with the scout when I was serving up the knights' hearty supper in the great hall. Naturally, he noticed my hesitance to leave his side during the meal for he met my eyes with a fiercely inquisitive expression and I attempted to convey my longing for his company alone, but since I wished to make myself crystal clear to him, I momentarily perched on the bench at his side. Although I heard the amiable encouragement of his comrades, I reflected their probing comments with the flash of a rather vacant smile.

I addressed Tristan in a low voice to avoid being overheard by our neighbours, whom would had revelled in the opportunity to tease their impassive scout perhaps even more so than myself. "I need to see you tonight, Tristan," I told him seriously and I subtly reached for his hand that rested nonchalantly in his lap. He showed no outward sign of either pleasure or embarrassment at my public act of affection, but downed a gulp of wine casually before he made any reply.

"You see me each day, don't you?" he countered sardonically. "Even now in fact." I sighed lightly at his irrepressible logic, but I was as much amused by it as exasperated at his deliberate misunderstanding.

"Would you come with me on a walk on the fort's walls? Please Tristan," I urged, unconsciously running my fingers across the pronounced tendons on the back of his hand. This time the Sarmatian nodded, seeming to appreciate my looming despondency and the desire to pass the evening at his side. I restrained myself from leaning forward to kiss his stubbled cheek and rose to allow him to resume his meal once again, satisfied that I had won his attentions to lighten the gloom of Celia's move to the southern reaches of Britain. When the knights had polished off the last scraps of the nourishing dinner, I felt more at ease to exchange words with the others; several of the knights, including Arthur himself enquired about my earlier parting with Celia and I found it difficult to properly relate he words without succumbing to emotion.

I was happy to see that Tristan lingered briefly as they filed out of the door on their way to the tavern as was their fondly observed custom. "It looks like rain tonight. Wear something suitable," he instructed me, in a role more the reliable scout than the man I had come to love. Accustomed to this strange blend façades he maintained so flawlessly, on this occasion it was his statement that I doubted.

"The sky was not at all overcast when I was outside today," I said with a frown. "Are you certain?" His stormy look was enough to inform me of my confidence and that he did not appreciate my scepticism about his carefully honed scouting skills. I would not make the same error again and I made haste to assure him of this.

* * *

As it happened, Tristan's prediction was not remiss and I was immensely glad that I had adhered to his advice when I was hurrying towards the stairway leading up to the impressively sturdy battlements. The rain was not especially heavy, but of an insistent ilk that rendered it unpleasant to be exposed to the typically British elements for any significant length of time. Upon arrival at the top of the wall, Tristan's presence was not immediately apparent, but I did not entertain any doubts whatsoever that he had recanted his promise. However, surveying my surroundings, I caught sight of an alcove further along the ramparts and instinctively knew that I would locate my lover there. Perhaps it was an infinitesimal fraction of Tristan's natural reconnaissance ability that had transferred itself to me, but my intuition was amply rewarded and I was smiling when I pushed back my sodden hood. Tristan stood up to greet me as I sought shelter under the cover of the stone alcove. "Thank you for coming, Tristan," I acknowledged gratefully and with a certain degree of bashfulness. I had been rather demanding just a couple of hours ago. "After Celia left this morning, I suppose I wanted someone there for me." He said nothing in response, but merely kissed me impatiently and vehemently. I yielded instantly to the now familiar touch of his lips on mine and when we separated, I leant my head forehead against his chest, admiring his palpable force and the simple warmth of his living, breathing body – that alone was sufficient for me. We stood still as the great marble statues of the mighty Roman emperors and their alabaster wives, listening to the pounding of the other's heartbeat mingled with the tapping of the raindrops on the smooth stone around us.

"I love you." Those three words slipped through my lips in a whisper without conscious intention. Nevertheless, I was certain that it had been the truest phrase I had ever spoken aloud and I had come to terms with the fact that our relationship was no mere fancy of mine – I yearned for still more from Tristan.

He stiffened and disengaged himself without delay. His movements were not made with their characteristic gliding elegance, but were instead jerky and harsh. Hurt and confusion burned brightly in my eyes.

"It did not mean anything, Isolde," he warned me in a cold, distant manner that froze my breath and brought tears to my eyes unwillingly. I did not know if he was referring to one shared event or the entire bond that I had treasured so highly.

"No," I whispered in a choked voice, shaking my head adamantly. "I am in love with you, Tristan." I could not accept the rejection; I had thought that we had surpassed his wilful moments of cruelty and dispassion, even if he did not love me in the same way.

"Don't say that!" he snapped, stepping towards me and seizing my arm in a firm grip. He seemed to tower over me in the small, claustrophobic space and his eyes blazed darkly. Despite all of this, I did not feel afraid of him for I had lost my fear of the scout when we had shared his bed, each seeking a sense of meaning in the other. "It was a tough time. You needed comfort and I needed…" He broke off with harsh outlet of breath that also diminished some of the sharp anger that had coursed through his frame. "I am not the man you want, Isolde." I simply fled from him, as prey from an indomitable hunter , blind and without bearing. His very proximity pierced my being like hot knives.


	24. Chapter 24

First of all, thanks to my supportive reviewer and I have finished this chapter in a slightly shorter time than predicted, so I hope this update is soon enough for you! I don't mean to nag, but more feedback would be highly appreciated to keep me inspired and motivated to write more! In particular, it would be great to hear whether you want to have next chapter (25) dedicated to Isolde's exploits alone or perhaps just an overview and then resume the story some months hence. Anyway, my question should become clearer once you have read this chapter and then if you could drop me a review or message with your opinion, that would be most helpful.  
I hope you enjoy this quite angst-ridden chapter and make up your own mind about whether Isolde is making a horrible mistake…

**Disclaimer: **I do not own the _King Arthur _film or any of the characters portrayed in it. This fanfic is written purely for entertainment purposes.

* * *

**Chapter 24**

**Road to Nowhere**

When I finally began to see and feel the world around me once more, I found myself drenched, alone and in such tortuous emotional agony. My breath was haggard from both the speed of my wild, directionless flight through the streets and the uncontrollable sobs that afflicted me. I stumbled to a halt and, leaning weakly against a nondescript building for support, I vainly swept my damp locks away from my face. I wondered bitterly how I could have been so utterly irrational to fall desperately in love, so blind to not understand the true nature of my lover and so foolish to sully everything that I had built piece by piece for myself in this place. However would I be able to face the man in whose eyes I had humiliated myself again, let alone serve him and his comrades without aching pangs of memory? I found it impossible to shed thoughts of my beloved Tristan from my consciousness and even his harsh rebuff and implication that I meant nothing more to him than a means of warming his bed could not diminish the way I treasured him. It was undoubtedly a cruel world.

There was just one solution that was neither responsible nor easy: my departure from the fort. This realisation had a debilitating effect on me and I hysterically buried my head in my trembling palms. I knew not how long I remained there in that condition, but I was spurred back into reality by the sound of raucous male voices approaching me down the rutted track. Their boisterous shouts and barking laughter was innately threatening to me, despite not being wholly in my right mind. After a moment's indecision, I ducked into the modest shelter of the nearby shadowed doorway, praying that my ragged sobs would not betray my hiding place to the men, whoever they might be. Tristan, as my cherished saviour and protector, regrettably sprang to mind, but I guessed I could no longer depend on his guardianship now that he had rejected my romantic advances in such an emphatic fashion.

"I'd like to get my 'ands on those stuck-up Romans! I don't give a damn who they say they are," a man with a deep voice boomed dangerously, sounding every inch a terrifying, irate barbarian. I shrank further into the gloom in order to lose myself within it, fear etched onto every feature of my countenance and body.

"They've got a bloody nerve to get us booted out like that," another agreed with equal animosity.

"_And _before we've had so much of a chance as to down our second tankard," complained a third man petulantly. Although they could not be more than a few paces away from me, I did not dare move a muscle for fear of giving my presence away. I willed more than ever that the Sarmatian scout would pursue me, both to come to my aid and rectify the gulf that now divided us.

"She's your woman, Bors. Have you not been keeping Vanora happy? I can always step in if there's an attractive woman left wanting…"taunted the unmistakeable tones of Lancelot. My sense of panic disappeared in an instant: of course, it was Bors, Gawain, Galahad and Lancelot! Still I made no efforts to reveal myself to my friends for I knew that they would hinder my attempts to leave with the best intentions at heart, but I could not face the blatant shame of my actions. I sheltered in the shadows until the carefree company had disappeared from both sight and earshot before I emerged, shaken and alone once more. Since I reckoned that the Sarmatian knights were returning home after their disrupted night of leisure, I followed their trail through the dark, intimidating streets and alleyways, bowing my head both against the persistent downpour and from the oppressive hurt that took its toll on my bearing and spirits.

* * *

No longer than half an hour later, I stood outside Murtagh's stall in the knights' stables, garbed in a pair of threadbare breeches and other typical riding attire – I should certainly require practical dress and, more importantly, my wits if I was to escape Tristan's presence freely. There was a brief letter addressed to Arthur that lay prominently at the foot of my cot, which would undoubtedly be discovered the next morning by Hedera. It would, however, be far too late to recall me or seek to impede my departure into the wide unknown world. The modestly cosy room had been swiftly stripped of my more precious, useful and portable possessions, but these ruthless choices about what could be spared had not even actively occupied my thoughts for more than the fleetest instance for the ugly scene that had arisen between myself and the scout had wound its way irreversibly into my consciousness. I did not know how many times I heard the same profession of love repeated or the painful words of ire, rejection and finally reason from Tristan in my mind.

The shifting of my restless horse under my limply outstretched palm roused me to action for I feared and half hoped in equal measure that Tristan might hunt me out and tell me that he had acted in folly or spoken lies about feelings he tried hard to suppress. I could not bear to wait to find out, especially as I realised this was a vain fantasy of mine and an attempt to save the last remaining vestiges of my self-respect. Once I had quietly entered the well-maintained stall, I struggled to properly saddle Murtagh since my fingers trembled violently when I tried to fasten buckles or adjust the girth and stirrups. He did not prove a great help to me, swinging his noble head to and fro from curiosity and was perhaps disconcerted by the obvious state of distress. My fragile emotions welled up into a muted, but fraught outburst of frustration as I cursed my incompetence both as a rider and a woman with shocking bitterness. I strode to the door and rested against it, making attempts to control myself by breathing deeply until I trusted myself to resume the laborious, complicated task once again.

At last, I was ready to lead my impetuous steed from the stables and I prayed that the sharp clipping of the hooves on the stone cobbles would not arouse Jols from his well-deserved slumber as I knew he guarded the horses under his care with a form of zealous vigilance. Outside the building, the rain had eased off a little until it fell in little more than a light drizzle, which boded well for me on account of my dire inexperience in riding in unfavourable conditions of any ilk. I rightly predicted that the night guards at the fortress gates would demand a bribe to let me past at such an ungodly hour and I paid them their corrupt reward without bartering or complaint, wishing simply to be on my way as soon as possible. I held my breath in anticipation as I beheld the gates being withdrawn just sufficiently wide enough for Murtagh and myself to inch through and my flight from responsibilities and humiliation seemed very real to me all of a sudden. It did not escape my notice that my own passage from the fort resembled Celia's own and our motives, whilst different had driven us to the same end. Would Vanora and the other knights think badly of me for deserting them in spite of everything they had assisted me with over the past weeks and months? I hoped they would understand at least to a lesser degree why I could not remain in their company because of the unavoidable association with Tristan this would bring. Perhaps Tristan would dissuade them from any anxiety they might harbour for me – a final sign of his utter dispassion.

As soon as I heard the dull, sonorous thud of the gates slamming shut behind me, I succumbed to silent tears. I knew now that I could not return even though I lacked genuine conviction that I was pursuing the right course of action for myself and those whom had displayed true affection for me. My horse was clearly eager for the exercise and I cradled the reins limply in my grasp, but permitted him to break into a liberating canter as he pounded rhythmically along the dirt track. His spirits were impervious to the night time gloom and I sought to immerse myself wholly in the desperate and possibly foolhardy escapade I had undertaken on a whim of wild emotion. Fearing that Murtagh would drive himself to exhaustion at such a heady pace, I reluctantly eased him into a more leisurely stride for I had thoroughly contemplated where we were headed. I just shared my horse's animalistic instinct to fly past farmers' well-tended fields and skirt the devious forests that lined the direct road. The woodland trails were unfamiliar to me and I knew that they could confound even the most confident of travellers with their circuitous, deceptive paths. I thought with a sharp paroxysm of regret and sorrow that Tristan would have proved a most able guide.

When my loyal horse began to show signs of weariness from a slackening of pace and heaving flanks, it struck me how drained I too felt, especially since I had not rested all night and the sky was beginning to illuminate with a pallid pink glow at its very edges. Dawn approached and sleep beckoned. Despairing of arriving at a welcoming hearth or inn before I literally tumbled from the saddle, I dismounted there and then at the roadside beside an unremarkable milestone, liberally coated with vibrant green-yellow lichen. I adhered to the cardinal rule of attending to the horse before satisfying the whims of the rider, tethering an unusually docile Murtagh and freeing him of his weighty leather saddle. He drank greedily from a deep, clear pool of rainwater that had thankfully collected in an adjacent pothole. He had proved his worth and I wished that I had possessed sufficient wit to bring him some treat of appreciation before my hasty departure, but, I confessed aloud to my mount in a morose whisper, that nothing had been further from my selfish thoughts. Then I all but collapsed onto the blanket I had retained the foresight to bring and drifted off into unhappy, albeit recuperative sleep, hardly caring if I was discovered unawares by Roman or Woad.

* * *

It was no surprise to me when I woke with a pounding headache and a gnawing hunger in my belly, but I was under no illusions about my whereabouts or how exactly I came to be sleeping under the stars on a bed of dew-covered grass. All of a sudden, a sense of immense isolation heightened my vulnerability as I examined the open wilderness of the north that surrounded me. I was accustomed to human contact, to their speech and the mere presence of others around me was an unwitting comfort to me. I entwined my fingers in Murtagh's dark mane and was thankful for the companionship he could offer me. Was this the life that Tristan led? Did he cherish the sense of solitude that now unnerved me so or love the precious vitality that he seemed to regard with a true warrior's scorn? I brushed my tears away with angry impatience, resenting my weakness in desiring to have someone to depend on. I wondered if this flaw in my character had prevented him from seeing me as more than a casual bedfellow.

A piercing cry from above instantly drew my attention and I glimpsed the graceful silhouette of a bird of prey soaring at a truly dizzying height. My heart leapt in my chest, almost as if it sought to join the elegant raptor in its authoritative domination of the heavens. I was torn between taking this occurrence as a simple yet poignant omen, or alternatively daring to believe that it might be Zhiva and that her master would not be far behind. Whatever the truth may have been, the sight instigated a rush of energy deep within me – a race of an unknown course had begun. I could not say if I would come out victorious.

Using the rough surface of the milestone as an aid, I hauled myself up onto Murtagh's newly saddled back with considerable effort since I had paid dearly for my exertions the previous night with an array of aches, pains and sores that I had not yet summoned up the courage to investigate or attempt to remedy. I merely clenched my jaw against the physical discomfort, aware that it would be easier to recover from than the emotional wounds I had sustained on the lovers' battlefield. I decided to continue along the principle highway until I happened upon the next settlement in order to ask for my bearings in this part of the British landscape that I was regrettably ignorant of. Armed with a secure knowledge of my location, I could consider the next stage of my journey more rationally. I did not yet have the heart to forge a new branch in my life, where I might be free to forget my mistakes, but would sacrifice my friends.

In the deepest recesses of my consciousness, I appreciated that there were three options that could potentially resolve my tormenting dilemma: return to the estate of my convicted uncle Gwrytheyrn, place myself at the mercy and generosity of Celia and her family many leagues to the south of this island, or accept Morgan's offer of an apprenticeship of sorts in her village. Each idea held its fair share of benefits and distinct disadvantages; for instance the first option bore the marks of tempting familiarity as, after all, I had dwelt there for many years of my childhood in relative innocence and peace, but naturally I could not guess how the authorities who now controlled the estate would respond to the homecoming of a lone young woman, claiming kinship with a convicted murderer and traitor.

With the cry of the hawk echoing in my ears, I pressed onwards resolutely, striking out into the unknown and ever scanning the horizon at my rear for the rider, whom I secretly and fervently prayed would find me once more.


	25. Chapter 25

I would like to give a big thank you to my reviewers, especially for your helpful suggestions as to how this chapter should be presented. This chapter, which is a little longer than usual, is dedicated to you! In the end, I have opted for an overview of the months Isolde spends away from the knights, but plan to use the idea of a section from Tristan's point of view at the start of the next chapter as I think it will work quite well in that capacity. I did enjoy writing some of the scenes from this chapter once I had gotten my head around the form it would take and whilst it does not include the knights, I assure you they will return with a flourish in the next chapter! More reviews would be fantastic!

**Disclaimer: **I do not own anything from the _King Arthur _film or any of its characters. This is written purely for entertainment purposes.

* * *

**Chapter 25**

**The Saxon Approach  
**

"Has your mind always wandered so?" enquired the young man at my side in his mocking yet melodious voice. Mordred could undoubtedly be a highly unpredictable companion, capable of sheer vindictiveness as frequently as a type of benevolence tainted by a hint of irony. Nevertheless, I had grown accustomed to his ways and could predict his temperamental tendencies with reasonable accuracy after dwelling with him for numerous weeks; as a result, I believed we got on tolerably well together. His relationship with his mother, Morgan was rather fraught and I had swiftly learnt to avoid the more turbulent domestic conflicts if at all possible by making myself scarce around their home. Morgan, for her part, had displayed great generosity towards me ever since I had arrived upon her doorstep with Murtagh, weary, ravenous and with a remarkable similitude to a common, unsavoury vagrant. Her expression did not even register a trace of surprise to see the girl with whom she had worked only briefly, nor did she press me for details of what had driven me away from the fort with such reckless haste. My debt to her was boundless. I strove to honour this by tirelessly aiding her in managing our modest, albeit thoroughly unconventional household and also in her capacity as local healer to the surrounding villages. I tried to be a credit to this well-respected figure in the community, acknowledging that I was borne by the locals solely because it seemed impertinent to gainsay her will and trust. Their barely veiled curiosity and, in some cases, hostility did not affect me as negatively as it would have done some months previously for which I was grateful – harsh experience of the world was the best cure for a pitifully thin skin, as I had discovered personally.

"I find the peace of this wild landscape especially conducive to thought, I suppose," I admitted eventually, gesturing vaguely with my empty wicker basket to the wooded swathe we were headed for and the gently rolling inclines of the barren grassland that lay behind us. Morgan's homely abode was some distance away now, but I could picture the humble wooden hut surrounded by a haphazard herb garden with great clarity in my mind as well as considerable fondness. I tugged my woollen cloak more snugly around my neck to ward off the chill winter breeze since autumn had not long been eclipsed by the less forgiving season.

Mordred grunted in passive agreement and we marched on in silence; he with his short bow clenched in his fist and a quiver of arrows on his shoulder and I with all my accoutrements for salvaging the last of nature's bounty, both edible and medicinal before the frost drained the life from it. Mordred had volunteered to accompany me, but he was prone to dart off without a word when he espied suitable prey for the supper pot and then he would reappear later as if a phantom with a self-satisfied smirk on his face. This tendency of stealth and uncanny skill for tracking had initially posed an uncomfortable reminder of the man I had desperately sought to banish from my mind, but I mastered my outwards discomfort when I understood that the similarities I perceived were baseless tricks of my subconscious desires. It was irritating how one's deepest desires and common sense too often came into conflict.

Soon after we had passed beneath the scanty canopy of the interlocking bows of the forest, the young hunter stalked away; I reckoned that he was probably sceptical of my ability to manoeuvre surreptitiously without spooking potential prey through my general air of gaucheness. With a sigh, I set to work, scanning the ground for any plants that might prove useful and was occasionally rewarded for my vigilance as I wandered onwards when I saw tubers to unearth or withered sprigs to cut. As I endeavoured to saw through a particularly fibrous root, my short blade accidentally slipped and nicked my thumb. I cursed vehemently under my breath (a wholly disagreeable habit I had picked up from Mordred) and clenched my wounded digit in my fist to stem the flow of blood. The reflective gleam of my knife contrasted with the ruby sheen of the blood that marred it.

The unpleasant sight of it stirred up memories of the Sarmatians for whom such a blade had always been a commonplace occurrence in the life of a defender of the empire. I suppressed fears that one more of the company could have fallen for the Sarmatian knights were blessed by an almost legendary status amongst their devoted admirers and thus I sincerely hoped that the absence of tales of so called glorious deaths and final stands against hoards of Woads was a favourable omen. It was strange to consider how much their lives would have progressed following my abrupt departure for Vanora surely would have given birth to Bors' eleventh bastard and the men themselves would only have to endure little more than a week before they would be proudly granted free passage to return across the seas to their distant homeland. It was a truly sobering train of thought and one which brought my task to a complete standstill. I sunk limply down to rest against the mottled bark of the trunk of a towering oak tree and closed my eyes. Could I still conjure up the images of their faces at will? I imagined them all mounted on their magnificent steeds, seeming fierce to the eye in their outlandish armour, but this façade softened by good humour and honour. I wondered if even Arthur had despaired of me since I had apparently rebuffed all attempts of my friends to guarantee my happiness and security. Then, I could not ignore the scout who had meant so very much to me. Did he ever contemplate me behind that inscrutable visage of his and would he not be troubled by even the faintest pang of regret when he left me behind on these shores without hope of reconciliation? I recalled the proud tilt of his chin, the defiant tattoos that rested high on his cheekbones as a sign of his nonconformity into polite Roman society and most of all, the way his captivating eyes would darken with allure as he leant down to kiss me.

"Isolde!" I started with a horrified gasp at the harsh whisper in my right ear, scrabbling to my feet once more. Mordred straightened up and my shocked expression merged into an angry scowl when I caught sight of a humorous spark dancing in his eyes. "Save your dreams of romance for when you are safe indoors. Come, we should return before it grows too dark." I stiffened at his unkind jibe, but gathered up my half-filled basket and sheathed my dagger, having wiped it clean on some damp moss at the base of the tree. When he saw the blood from my careless injury however, he sobered up quickly and gently examined my hand despite my protestations.

"It is nothing," I snapped shortly, still riled by his comments that had been a little too close to the mark for comfort. Ignoring me, he used the clear spring water from his canteen to cleanse the cut and I gritted my teeth to hold back the hiss of pain that threatened to surface when he laid down his prize catch of hares to bind my thumb tightly with a spare strip of fabric. I was just about to thank him for attending to it when he lifted my hand and pressed his lips to my knuckles fleetingly. My eyes flared wide open in speechlessness at his spontaneous, unsolicited gesture.

He met my gaze with an ambivalent turn of his lips that could have been taken either as a smirk or a more genuine smile. "I only jest, my lady," he uttered, softly letting my hand fall, but he did not venture to clarify whether he was referring back to his previous taunt or his touching act before he turned to lead the way home.

* * *

I realised that I had begun to exasperate Morgan from the way all her instructions imparted to me were punctuated by heavy sighs and lingering pauses. She was not unjustified of course for I had been acting like a morose, aimless child ever since I had silently marked the fifteenth anniversary of the knights' service to Rome with anguished sobs into my pillow in the privacy of the night. The knowledge that Tristan and his comrades were all surely riding south to barter passage on a ship for the mainland tore at my heart since it brought home a true and proper sense of isolation at our separation. At first, I had endeavoured to maintain a staunchly brave, flawless front, but my efforts were in vain and even Mordred ceased his capricious games usually conducted at my expense.

Today, the healer and I had been urgently summoned to attend the bedside of a young child of no more than six winters, who had fallen ill with a fever. His stricken mother and two elder sisters watched helplessly as the eerily pallid boy tossed to and fro in his cot, moaning incoherently every now and then. It was a sorry sight and it was difficult to remain aloof from the family's suffering, but the trauma of Lamorak's lingering passing had instilled in me a grim resolve to primarily focus on the patient's needs. I prepared a brew of willow bark tea to relieve some of his physical discomfort whilst Morgan both cooled the boy's forehead with a damp rag and checked my own work from the corner of her watchful eye. She made no gesture of disapproval or reproach and when all our ministrations were completed, she turned to the anxious mother with an effortlessly gentle smile, "There is naught else for us to do now, but await the abating of his fever. You may continue to keep his brow cool and offer but a few drops of water as required."

"Will he live, miss?" blurted out one of the girls, her green eyes wide with compassionate fear for her frail brother. I perhaps pitied her even more than the sick boy, who was largely unaware of his peril at the moment whilst his kin must look on and wonder what his fate would be.

"I could not say, dear," Morgan answered softly and I felt a surge of admiration for the way in which she refused to patronise the girl in spite of the innocence of her youth. "It is out of your or my power to aid him further."

The hopeless expression on the trio's faces spurred me to talk too. "You may come to fetch us to his side, day or night if you are worried for his safety. We wish to act as well as we can to ensure he recovers." In all honesty, I would have been glad to feel appreciated in my capacity as a healer instead of being abandoned to my black daydreams as I was during the idle moments that peppered my otherwise busy existence. The woman thanked us both sincerely, but I recognised the defeated stance with which she carried herself and knew that there were no words that could entirely alleviate the doubts that plagued her. We took our leave from the homestead and stepped outside into the brisk evening air together. The fairly thin covering of snow crunched beneath our boots and yet seemed to stifle the sounds of life emanating from the neighbouring homes.

"Morgan!" boomed a deep voice resonantly, shattering the peaceable calm instantaneously. Both of our heads snapped around in the direction of the shout to see a tall, heftily-built figure of a man hurrying towards us. When he was sufficiently close enough, I identified him as Blacwin – an influential figure in this predominantly agricultural settlement, who had fashioned himself into the unofficial elder. His word alone could hinder the progress of an ugly brawl or property dispute, even when large volumes of ale had been implicated in events. Whilst I knew him to be an honourable man, he had never deigned to pay me much attention, overshadowed as I was by Morgan's almost mystical authority as village healer. "I am afraid I bear very ill tidings indeed. My brother-in-law ploughs the land on Marius Honorius' estate, but he has just reached here to inform us of the Saxon force sweeping down from the north, pillaging without mercy as they go."

Morgan and I shared a glance of pure shock at his unwelcome news. "How far away are these invaders? Will they attack here?" she asked sharply and I was thankful that at least was pragmatic enough to make these enquiries when I was still frozen by fear at the prospect of a Saxon incursion.

Blacwin shook his head in great distress and replied with bleak uncertainty, "By all accounts, they are not more than a few days away. My wife's brother was instructed to flee southwards with all haste as if their very lives were at stake!" I immediately bit back that cutting remark that their lives most likely _were_ depending on this action of salvation alone.

"If the Roman army itself is not moving to counter the Saxon force, who ordered your brother to leave Honorius' estate?" asked Morgan abruptly.

"That commander, Arthur Castus," replied the man with a tentative hint of veneration colouring his tone.

I felt my chest constricting almost painfully as my breath shortened. How could this be? I had always assumed that Arthur would leave the land of his birth behind in favour of the glories of retirement in the almighty Roman capital. "And what of his knights?" I cried desperately, arresting Blacwin in his tracks as he started to leave on his way to warn other members of the closely-woven community. He gazed at me curiously as if he wondered what could possibly have provoked me to ask such a frivolous question when multitudes of barbarian warriors were bearing down upon us.

"Aye," he responded tersely, impatiently glancing over his shoulder. "His cavalry were with him too." Even at such a grave, menacing time as this, this small fragment of good news proved improperly uplifting to me – a fact that did not pass unnoticed by my fellow healer.

In unspoken accord, we hastened back to the house, each of us privately ruminating on what we had heard from Blacwin. However, before we entered in order to inform Mordred and prepare as we best we could, Morgan stayed me with an insistent hand on my arm. "Isolde, I know you came here to escape your troubles with the Sarmatian knights, but clearly your isolation has done you little service." I began to protest against this for I did not wish to seem ungrateful for the opportunities she had presented me with since I had arrived here some months ago, but she cut me off with an imperious wave of her hand. "I will not force you to reveal your secrets, but do not mistake me for a fool with regards to people's innermost emotions. We all fall into errors of judgement sometimes, but that does _not_ mean that we are bound by duty to follow that erroneous path to the bitter end. Do not punish yourself for such a futile cause."

I was highly moved by her maternal concern for me and would have in fact told her the whole story if she had wished for it. "It was not so much a mistake that I made, but rather that I was a fool and acted like a naïve child," I said hesitantly for it was still hurtful to remember my folly.

"Do you regret leaving the fort? You were very fond of the men if I am not mistaken." It took me what seemed like an age to respond to this difficult, probing question, but finally, I nodded in the affirmative since I felt unable to rely on my voice to hold strong and true given the circumstances. Morgan appeared to sense my disquiet and so leant forward to envelop me in a warm embrace. "Then you should return there. You are not a coward by nature."

And so it happened that I readied myself and Murtagh to depart the following dawn after a restless night. I could scarcely believe that I was heading to confront the situation I had recklessly abandoned several months before and perhaps if I had had more time to consider the deed, I would have relented and remained at Morgan's side.

"Now are you certain that you have not forgotten anything, Isolde?" asked Morgan as she emerged from the hut and eyed my light saddlebags and sombre attire critically. She gave me a wan smile when she met my gaze which I did not have the heart to return.

"Where will you go now that it is no longer safe to dwell here?" I countered as it was the only other anxiety that had troubled me last night except from Tristan's reaction to my surprise return.

She rested against the rustic doorframe pensively and I was not sure if I could detect a note of plaintive sorrow in her reply or if I imagined it was so. "I shall seek refuge with my clan among the Woads," she told me and cocked an eyebrow in amusement at my startled, poorly suppressed gasp. "Yes, it is true: I once lived north of the wall, but there was a certain…dispute shall we say about a husband whom I could not endure. Now that he is dead, there is no reason to deter me from returning to reside with my kindred. You are shocked, are you not?"

"No! I mean yes, possibly a little," I admitted sheepishly, but she merely laughed. I had entertained no inkling of this strange connection of hers and neither she nor her son fit my preconceived notion of a thoroughly bloodthirsty, uncivilised Woad. Although, I thought with a touch of irony, in some respects this stereotypical ferocity would have been an opportune trait in Mordred, who had pledged to accompany me for protection. Initially, I had been firmly opposed to the idea of his presence, both because it would slow Murtagh considerably to bear two riders on the road, but also because I did not feel wholly at ease when I contemplated merging both facets of my life. Nevertheless, I had been easy to convince when reminded of the Saxon threat for the prospect of encountering a band of the cruel invaders alone on my journey was enough to implant sentiments of dread and horror right in the very core of my being.

"I am yours to command," Mordred quipped as he too emerged from the house, suitably attired in the drab colours of our natural surroundings and armed with his trusty bow. Whilst I held his skill with this weapon in great esteem, I secretly longed for a guardian with an elegantly curved sword. I had attached my sheathed dagger to my belt so that it weighed reassuringly against my hip, even if I lacked much proficiency in its proper use in conflict.

"Right," I murmured to myself, swinging my tired body onto Murtagh's saddle as Morgan stepped forward to hold his reins least he choose to prematurely succumb to his fleet footed instincts. Then I awkwardly reached down to my companion to attempt to help him up into the saddle behind me since he did not possess any prior experience in the art of horsemanship. We succeeded in an effective, albeit ungainly manner and I could almost hear the laughter of the talented knights ringing in my ears – our reunion seemed close now and I was unnerved by the blend of excitement and apprehension that I felt.

Mordred rested his arm loosely around my waist, but the mood had turned solemn in light of our imminent departure and with the ominous threat of brutality not far away. If I returned myself fully to the society I had previously been a part of, must I also relinquish my links with my healer and friend? The balance of power in Britain would alter drastically whatever the outcome of this unforeseen war with the Saxons and so I supposed I ought to stoically await what the new future might precipitate for my loved ones and I.


	26. Chapter 26

At last, we come to the crucial battle of Badon Hill! I have tried a slightly different approach when describing the action on the battlefield, so please let me know if it works. Once you reach the end of the chapter, it will become apparent that there are still more questions to be answered and situation to be expounded upon, but I shall endeavour to post the next chapter as soon as I can. This chapter may be a little short, but I felt it arrived at a natural conclusion to maintain some slight suspense! I hope you enjoy this installment.

I would also like to heartily thank my reviewers who were very generous with their praise and encouragement! It is an absolute pleasure to read your reviews!

**Disclaimer: **I do not own _King Arthur_ or any of its characters. This fanfic is written purely for entertainment purposes.

* * *

**Chapter 26**

**The Road to Badon Hill  
**

We were completely surrounded. Their overtly hostile gazes did not wander even momentarily from us and yet they did not launch an assault. The tension that emanated from the scene had an almost tangibly electric aura. At last, one wiry man stepped forward, after setting aside the whetstone he had been using to sharpen his deadly short sword. It was impossible to decipher his age from the transitory glance I shot him, but I did not feel bold enough to meet his questioning, intense stare. "Who are you and what business do you have here?" he asked is an authoritative yet strangely soft tone and his telling accent alone was sufficient to mark him out as a potential enemy to someone with a background like mine. I shivered unconsciously at the mere sight of the deep blue tattoos that coiled around his scarred limbs that were exposed in spite of the bitter cold. Perhaps his people were so accustomed to the extremes of this harsh landscape that it had ceased to affect them as it did to someone of my sensitive constitution.

"Mordred, son of Morgan," retorted my fellow traveller when the leader's question went unanswered. The brazen proclamation of his mother's name seemed to hold some power over his former compatriots for there was a sudden murmur of exchange in their guttural native tongue. Mordred openly ignored the persistent clamour and continued his speech in our common language. "And this is Isolde, who is friend to neither the Romans nor the Saxons. We are headed to the fort at Badon Hill with all the haste we can muster." The Woad who had first addressed us still regarded us with an air of suspicion and I was not certain if alluding to Mordred's maternal lineage had been a wise strategy at all. Mordred automatically tightened his grip around my waist as he sensed my palpable nerves from the stiffening of my posture. A harsh male voice from around one of the communal fires of the camp broke above the others with a venomous cry in their alien tongue; however, even without knowledge of its precise meaning, I fully appreciated the threatening hostility with which it was uttered. It appeared we were not welcome in this vicinity and would certainly forge no friendships here.

"Are you riding there to fight then, boy? For you do not look like a warrior to my eyes and nor does that mute girl of yours," mocked the dark-haired leader, much to the relish of his surrounding band of both men and women. They all were similarly wild in appearance, garbed in a disparate array of scanty animal hides that plainly showed their alabaster skin, tinted bright blue from their use of the dye from their eponymous woad plant.

Mordred's animosity intensified and I turned to lay a calming hand on his leg when he appeared ready to dismount to confront the man who goaded us. "What do you mean by 'fight'? Have the Saxons reached there yet?" I asked tentatively, hoping that the tremor in my voice would pass undetected.

This time it was a young female Pict who spoke, "We have been following the Saxons for days now on Merlin's orders. They are not more than half a day from Badon by our reckoning so that area will become a battlefield before long. Do not venture there, girl, if you value your life." I shuddered in a way that was not influenced by the cold, but instead by an icy horror for this Saxon manoeuvre had completely disrupted any hopes of return I held dear.

"What of Arthur Castus and his men? Have you heard word of their whereabouts?" enquired Mordred in a supercilious tone, eliciting raised eyebrows and mistrustful glances from all sides. "Well, come on, you have no cause to distrust me!" he yelled when no immediate response was forthcoming. These people evidently did harbour some grudge against him that stayed their words.

"The Roman-Bristish mongrel Arthur has forged an alliance with Guinevere and Merlin," the leader of the Woads eventually informed us darkly and it was evidently a union that did not meet with his approval by any means. Mention of the Sarmatians however, had contorted his expression even further into a fearsome expression of his loathing. "As for his men, let them be damned!" This provoked a cheer of endorsement from his comrades-in-arms and I had to fight hard to maintain a reasonable pretence of composure. When we realised that we had obtained all the help we could from this dissatisfied band of Woads, I nodded my head stiffly in a universal gesture of gratitude and then spurred Murtagh on between the haphazard aspects of their campsite without a backward glance at our antagonisers. If their tidings had not been fallacious, then Mordred and I would have precious few moments to spare in order to avoid being involved in the skirmishes that were sure to erupt. We had calculated that we could reach the fort in a matter of hours now provided that Murtagh could sustain a vigorous canter just a short while longer.

As we sped onwards at a greater pace than I had previously dared travel at, Mordred leant forward to shout into my ear above the howl of the wind, "Where are you taking us, Isolde? You cannot intend to ride straight into the midst of a battlefield!" I least of all wished to find myself at the heart of a bloody conflict for the control of this land, but I could not relinquish hopes of locating Tristan now that I had dared come so far. Even if the quietly faithful scout himself had indeed left Arthur to fend off the might of the Saxons alongside the Woads, perhaps I could learn of his bearings from his former commander and dear friend before the carnage commenced in earnest.

* * *

I finally drew Murtagh to an abrupt halt when we had reached the crest of a hill that overlooked Badon's fort. The terrible clamour of clashing metal, frenzied battle cries and heart-rending wails of the wounded was carried on the wind right up to our vantage point even before I caught sight of the scene of the raging battle with my own eyes. For a while, neither Mordred nor I dared speak, but I inwardly lamented our ill fortune in the unavoidable delay we had incurred on our journey to allow my beloved horse some respite. The physical exertions over the course of our journey had wearied him so greatly that I had begun to fear for him on account of his laboured breathing, but a short recuperation period had remedied this although I had felt both frustrated and powerless to progress.

A fleeting glance to my right rendered me speechless for a breathless instant for, impaled proudly in the green earth stood a line of five glinting Sarmatian battle standards – noble bronze stallion heads tailed with crimson fabric that streamed out in the breeze. Mordred muttered an oath under his breath, but since he was seated only just behind me on the saddle, I heard his curse loud and clear. I could not help but wordlessly agree with it. The figures on the battlefield itself were hard to discern at such a distance, but nevertheless my rapt attention was fixed on the unfolding events below in the blazing hope that I might catch a glimpse of traditional Sarmatian battledress in midst of all the warriors. A flash of vivid scarlet alerted me to Arthur's dominant presence and my heart soared strangely within my chest – I truly had come home, but everything seemed so drastically wrong. The horror of the death and destruction that lay before us summoned tears that utterly blurred my vision. Warfare had always struck me as a distant phenomenon; the knights might speak of it in an offhand manner and I had, in fact, witnessed its dreadful consequences, but the relentless assault on my senses and compassion overwhelmed me. Here was hell itself.

"Well, Isolde," Mordred drawled over my shoulder, "what's your back up plan? I for one, do not rate our chances of survival very highly if we approach any closer."

"I do not know what to do," I whispered brokenly, devastated. I vaguely bent over to soothe Murtagh who was adversely affected by the acrid black smoke that coiled upwards from the numerous pyres that dotted the plain. "I merely want to know that they are safe; that he still lives." At that point in time, it was virtually inconceivable that any man, no matter how skilled with a blade could emerge unscathed. My companion sighed heavily and released hold from around my waist.

"Remain here with Murtagh," Mordred ordered tersely as he made an awkward dismount with his bow in hand. He started to stalk off down the hill in the direction of the conflict when I cried out in alarm to demand what he intended to do. "I will draw a little nearer to the action and see if I can spy out your precious Sarmatians through all the carnage to put your mind at rest – especially that scout of yours with the odd braids and curved blade." _Tristan_, the name was left unspoken but the understanding that pulsed between us was obvious.

"Please, take care, Mordred," I begged, but I was inwardly extremely grateful for this service which could place him harm's way. Besides, his mother would have my hide if she discovered that I had not attempted to hinder this foolish deed of bravery.

"Do not fear for me. I shall take great pains to avoid any Saxon blades or missiles, or those of the Woads or Sarmatians for that matter. _I _am not a hero," he finished with blatant bitterness before he spun on his heel to leave me. I watched his retreating back as he skirted cautiously down the slope with the natural semblance of an artful hunter instead of the bold advance that might characterise a seasoned warrior entering the fray. How selfish I was to allow him to make such a sacrifice for my sake alone! I fervently prayed that his agility and wit would serve him sufficiently well to guard him. Yet I remained on the crest on the lonely hill for a long, agonising wait after the healer's son had merged with the dense smoke, completely frozen whilst my eyes quested back and forth for indications of my friends and particularly the distinctive movements of the lover whom I had lost once already. I could not bear to relinquish him to death for that was one impenetrable barrier from which there could be no return.

* * *

_A true haze of pain engulfed him. Dark blood thickly coated the tips of his fingers and yet this time, it came from his own veins. Hands which should have been wielding his sword and bringing swift, unrepentant death to his enemies now were bereft of it as he crawled across the damp earth. The thud of the Saxon King's boots pierced his consciousness and in vain his warrior instinct was kindled, but his ravaged body would no longer respond. The barbarian's gigantic blade was driven into the ground by his flank and he lifted his leaden head to stare his enemy squarely in the eye. This may be his end, but he would not die as a beast to be slaughtered or a cowering shadow of a man. The leader weighed up the scout's blade in his hand, swinging it almost idly as if this was merely a training exercise at the armoury. He vaguely registered a sense of distant ire at the audacity and the insult, but as the man closed in for the finale of their due, the cry of a hawk in the sky above lifted the corners of his bloodied mouth momentarily. _

_First one arrow met its mark in the flank of the Saxon, but the second fell just short. His enemy snatched at the shaft that had penetrated a flaw in his armour and whirled around in pained anger for the archer who dared try to slay him in such a cowardly manner. Tristan knew this was his reprieve. As he heaved his leaden frame off the ground, he plunged one of his trusty daggers deep into the torso of the man with an animalistic bellow. Another sharp pain flared up all across his right side and he staggered unsteadily backwards with a grunt._

_As he collapsed to his knees, he dimly acknowledged a blood red shadow sweeping in front of him before his vision was stolen from him as he slipped into black oblivion. Last of all, he pictured a face, adorned with soft coral lips and grey eyes, rendered bright and entrancing with unguarded emotion. _


	27. Chapter 27

Finally, I have come to the aftermath of Badon Hill and the long-anticipated reunion of our two leads in this story! There will, however, be a lot more to come on the serious emotional baggage that the two of them still have, but I thought it more realistic that they would do their best to ignore the difficulties of their past so soon after a battle. After all, Tristan and Isolde have never been people to readily share their inner feelings! Please read and review to let me know what you think. Reviews mean a lot to me. Therefore, I owe an extra special thanks to all my reviewers, past and present, and especially to Apple Bottom for her continued support of this fic!

**Disclaimer: **I do not own the _King Arthur _film or any of the characters therein. This is written for entertainment purposes only.

* * *

**Chapter 27**

**In Sickness and In Health**

My senses revolted against the scene of death and suffering that confronted me as Mordred led the way across the plain. I maintained a light grip on the handle of my dagger, more for the purpose of mental reassurance than any practical motive for the worst of the conflict was over. Victory had been won for Arthur and the Woads, but the human cost was hardly negligible. We moved hastily and I strove to retract my gaze from the casualties that littered the ground – I would help as I could later, but now Mordred said he would lead me to where my attentions were most desperately required. He would grant me no further explanation at this stage.

While at some distance away, I realised that we were approaching a blessedly familiar warrior, protected by bloodied armour yet thankfully still standing. This image of Bors would have meant the world to Vanora, I reckoned and the numerous children whom would still have a father to admire and entreat. As I was about to call out to the knight and ask for tidings of his comrades, my eyes fell upon the inert, heart-wrenching figure at his feet whom he now knelt down to with a panicked urgency. My breath caught in my throat as if its path was physically barred and I would have crumpled to the earth in an instant if Mordred had not darted back to lend me support with an arm around my waist. The sight of Tristan, lying lifeless before me almost beggared belief and I could neither cry out in horror nor shed tears at that time. Mordred began to lead me towards the two Sarmatians and instinctively, I struggled against this, digging the heels of my boots into the soft grass and vainly trying to rid myself of his hold on my arm. I had no desire to draw any nearer as if that alone would prevent the truth of my former lover's fate from becoming awful, unrelenting reality. However, my feeble efforts were to no avail and I ceased them entirely when we reached the scout's prone form, these sensations of rebellion replaced instantly with a dull, slack jawed dread.

"Does he breathe still?" my companion demanded of Bors, mindless of the knight's swift anger and rebuke in the face of such an insolent stranger, but the boisterous man was unusually wordless in this grave situation on the field of battle. His powerful hands were too encumbered by his customary wrist guards to enable him to freely assess his friend's wellbeing and I observed with mounting fear the blood that was welling up from the grievous wounds inflicted at Saxon hands. Mordred turned to me and, cupping my face under the chin, he addressed me in a controlled, albeit fierce tone, "Isolde, pull yourself together! Forget everything him but his injuries!" His harsh commands had the desired effect and I inhaled deeply before dropping to my knees at the scout's side, unable to quell the tremor of my limbs or the rapid racing of my heart. Bors acknowledged me for the first time with a manner of curious disbelief, as might be expected if I were a phantom vision back from the beyond death. Tenderly brushing aside one of Tristan's braids that covered his throat, I pressed a couple of fingertips just beneath his jaw and bent my cheek down so that it hovered but a hair's breadth above his loosely parted lips. For an impossibly long period, I felt neither beat of a strong pulse against my fingers nor feathery breath of life on my face; but then, at last, I realised that both signs of vitality were present, merely weak enough to almost pass unnoticed. I was overcome by a surge of emotion of unprecedented potency. The chance of our reunion existed still, but as a faint flicker.

"He lives," I told the men that awaited this news in a trembling voice and it was a wonder that they could hear me over the noise of the battle's aftermath. "But scarcely and needs the urgent attention of a healer."

Bors nodded and I recognised a kindred sentiment of relief that momentarily relaxed his tense frame – he seemed torn between embracing me and letting out a bellow of unadulterated reprieve. Nevertheless, he refrained from either courses of action and instead heaved Tristan's motionless body onto his shoulders, neglectful of his own intense weariness and minor wounds.

"Come on then, lead the way, my girl," he instructed me with a grunt of effort and I was only too glad to obey.

* * *

All those possessing knowledge or experience of healing had been summoned to the site of a temporary hospital within the fort, however limited their expertise might be. Many women who had lingered behind the walls despite the risk to their safety were enlisted to roll bandages, ferry hot water from the well and kitchens and provide meals sufficient to satisfy the injured and the weary.

Bors had installed his unconscious burden in a private room before rushing off to find Arthur and then await the return of his beloved family. The commander would surely be desirous to hear about Tristan's precarious condition and so I set to work immediately, feeling more confident to have Mordred's silent presence in the room to keep me from laying aside all reason in the face of grim despair. Together we struggled to remove the knight's armour so that I might gain unimpeded access to his wounds and, with mounting anxiety and frustration, I continued to monitor his pulse that unfortunately beat a pitifully weak rhythm against my fingertips. When he was finally availed of his protective arms, I found it most difficult to retain my composure at the sight of the jagged cuts that marred the flesh I had once lovingly caressed. It was impossible to view him impassively as a simple patient because I longed to press my lips to his and tell him how sorry I was to have initiated our parting, even if my feelings went unreciprocated. Nevertheless, I adhered to Morgan's strict teachings to the letter by first cleansing the injuries lightly but thoroughly with warm, salted water and prayed that his oblivious state extended to a lack of physical sensation due to my necessary, but painful ministrations. After I had bound the less severe scrapes across his chest and thigh, the deeper wound on his right side was still in need of attention to close it if infection was going to be successfully prevented. Despite the constant bleed that made the palms of my hands repugnantly slick with his livid blood, I knew that stitches were the only viable option, but the prospect of performing this task filled me with dread. To make matters worse, Arthur and Gawain slipped unobtrusively into the room to watch over their friend, still garbed in their soiled battle gear but apparently well, excepting one of Gawain's burly shoulder's which had been tightly bound by another healer. My other companion gave them a curt nod of acknowledgement before he left the room out of respect for their priority at the man's sickbed.

The Romano-British commander offered me a half-hearted smile as I prepared my needle and thread with trembling hands. "Isolde, you have returned at an opportune moment," he told me heavily and I understood the underlying gratitude in his words.

Following several failed attempts to thread the needle, Arthur gently took it from my hands and performed the delicate task himself with admirable precision and deftness; now it was turn to be grateful for this small favour. Gawain, who had settled himself on a stool in the corner, joked at my expense, "You look as if you could benefit from a draught of stiff ale. Shall I fetch some for you?" I settled for a forced smile in response, but even his levity was empty – a fact that caused me a great deal of concern as they lacked the sense of relief that typically sustained them in the time after an especially fierce fight.

"What of the others?" I asked, compelled to obtain this knowledge before I could fully focus on my duties as a healer again since the knights' appearances had unsettled me greatly.

There was a long, uncomfortable pause that almost informed me of the terrible truth before Arthur dared to voice it aloud: "Lancelot has fallen at the hands of a Saxon prince and Dagonet too was killed on our final mission for Rome." The bitterness with which he uttered the name of the Empire to which he was formerly a most devout and loyal subject highlighted the responsibility he laid at Rome's bloody hands for the death of one of his own men. Even though my own sorrow was profoundly piercing, I recognised that the commander's own sense of devastating loss and guilt must be more immense still. As I looked down at the scout's face to hide the tears that threatened to spill, Arthur stepped forward to awkwardly console me with a pat on the arm. Although I did not wish for further details of my Sarmatian friends' demises, one prominent thought struck me: it was now more crucial than ever that I ensure Tristan at least would recover to tell others of Lancelot and Dagonet's honour. They must not be forgotten by any means.

* * *

Three days of relentless care and vigilance for any symptoms of further complications followed alongside the attentions paid to the multitude of other people in various states of injury. Despite dealing with some of the more horrendously graphic consequences of Saxon enmity, including assisting more experienced healers with unavoidable amputations of limbs that would only succumb to infection or further grievances, I found no other cases quite as difficult to face as Tristan's. It was bizarre that I could confront battle scarred, so-called barbaric Woads with less trepidation that attending the bedside of my former lover, insentient as he still was. However, the overwhelming elation I felt when I bustled into his chamber to find his eyes flickering open was completely unparalleled in this mortal world. I clasped a hand to my mouth to suppress the cry of amazement that threatened to summon a throng of my colleagues and disturb their recovering charges. I hastened to his side as he eased himself into an upright position that was more according to his taste – even when barely out of the clutches of death itself, he hardly liked to be seen reclining in bed. "Tristan!" I breathed eagerly as if these intervening months in our acquaintance had been wholly inconsequential. It was the tone of a distraught lover, but I paid no heed to propriety and appropriate censorship at such a long-awaited moment. "How do you fare?"

He grunted, tentatively attempting to loosen the covers that kept his arms unwillingly pinned at his sides. With all the brisk efficiency expected of a competent healer, I assisted him in silence, but I could not draw my eyes from his pale, haggard face. It was such a blessing to see those dark, dusky eyes of his, unveiled after a seeming age of unconsciousness for I had secretly been looking forward to engaging them once again more than any other wish in my heart. He grimaced in evident and predictable discomfort and I clenched my fists to hinder myself from leaping to his aid again, aware that he would appreciate an overly fastidious nurse least of all. He was silent for quite a while after he had settled himself to his discerning satisfaction and from his dark, distant expression, I believed that he was perhaps remembering the events that had led him to his current state. What had crossed his mind as he descended into unconsciousness on Badon Hill?

"Not bad," he replied at last with characteristic understatement that almost elicited a coy smile from my lips. "A little sore, but I'll live." This time, I did laugh and as I did so, I felt as if a damning weight had been lifted from my shoulders. I longed to never leave his side until he had recovered his normal strength and abilities enough to leave this bed, but I refused to ignore his needs for the sake of my idle, romantic desires.

"Wait here," I instructed him in vain for, once I had considered my words, I realised that he was probably incapable of much movement now anyway. He too seemed to acknowledge the innate silliness of this command for he raised an impatient eyebrow. "I shall return shortly with a little food and drink." I scarcely refrained from running to the kitchens to acquire the scout's sustenance, my heart singing with joy and the love that I did not wish to quash; or at least, not until Tristan was fully better and I would be forced to confront the reality of prior events in our intertwined lives.

"Why are you back here?" he asked after a laden pause with a carefree tone as he carefully spooned the unappetising broth into his mouth. This was a question that I had faced from the four remaining knights and Vanora already, although, truth be told, generally with a greater degree of courtesy and tact. I glimpsed the faint tremor of the spoon as he lifted his hand and I inwardly marvelled at his stoicism since the injuries he had sustained were grave enough to render his survival uncertain; yet I knew his character well enough to realise that he would not wish me to comment on this small, perceived frailty although it was rightly my responsibility as his primary healer. In his case alone, I committed the cardinal sin of prioritising my feelings for the patient over my duties as the one entrusted to nurse him back to full health again.

"I wished to see you before you returned to Sarmatia," I replied, but when I met his intense stare, I quickly amended my statement, "I mean all of the knights as I neglected to do so when I left on the last occasion." This allusion to our difficult parting highlighted just how uncertain I still felt about that disrupted, flawed relationship we had so fleetingly enjoyed, but it was true that time could act as a great panacea to ease the dull ache of emotional grievances. Deep within, I hoped for a discernable flicker of disappointment on his features, but he appeared heavily focused upon his meal as if sating his hunger dominated all other thoughts. It was sufficiently convincing for me to wonder if he was even listening to my reply at all. When he set aside the wooden bowl that he had ravenously drained, I asked the question that had preyed upon my mind relentlessly as I watched him sleeping, "Will you leave for Sarmatia once you have recovered and now that we have peace at last?"

The scout shrugged his shoulders and was obviously repaid for his lack of thought since a wince of pain flashed across his face. Instinctively, my hand darted out to take his out of blind concern yet he made no move to slip out of my grasp as he had rejected my touch all those many weeks ago. "There is nothing for me in Sarmatia and this is no time of peace, Isolde. Arthur still faces the problem of unifying the scattered Woad tribes," he corrected me severely. I trusted his judgement implicitly although my idealism and optimism had decreed that times of plenty and hope would be restored to Britain at last.

Before I could press Tristan for further insights into his intentions and the fate that awaited us all, there was a sharp rap upon the door. Mordred breezed in with a dark scowl without waiting for a response and addressed me alone, entirely ignoring Tristan, "Isolde, there is a man with a broken arm in need of attention in the hall if you can spare him a few precious moments…"

"Certainly," I cried, getting abruptly to my feet as a blush of embarrassment spread richly over my complexion. I made on comment on Mordred's acrimonious remark. "I shall attend to him presently." Apparently satisfied, Mordred ducked out again after he deigned to acknowledge Tristan with a curt, unfriendly nod. I could not decipher whether he was irritated by my actions or if the continual presence of the hostile Woads was wearing on his already frayed temper. As I turned back to Tristan to excuse myself, I caught sight of his cocked eyebrow and the faint hint of a smirk playing around his lips. "That was Mordred," I explained with a sheepish smile and helpless shrug, "He was the one who…helped you during the battle. I have been living with him and his mother, learning the intricacies of the art of healing." Tristan said nothing in response and so I headed to the door, feeling quite slighted by the man's sudden disregard which perhaps caused me to adopt my healer's mantle more sternly than previously, "It is necessary for you to rest in bed until given leave to do otherwise. I shall ensure that someone comes later to renew your bandages."

"Come yourself," he bade me quietly, but in that certain tone of his that brooked no possibility for contrary argument. My façade of severity and professional authority melted instantly at this request and I strove to supress the delighted smile that stole upon my countenance unconsciously.

"I shall try," I murmured in willing placation as I shut the door of the knight's private chamber behind me.


	28. Chapter 28

Hello all and I apologise for not updating for a couple of weeks; I'm afraid that reality caught up with me for a time! I was absolutely delighted by the reviewer response to the last chapter and I hope you'll continue to enjoy and tell me your thoughts. Anyway, the second half of this chapter contains a great deal of Tristan-Isolde time and I hope it works out to your liking! Reviews would be massively appreciated.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own _King Arthur _or any of the characters of the film. This fanfic is written purely for entertainment purposes.

* * *

**Chapter 28**

**Absolution  
**

The insurmountable list of tasks that all our demanded left little room for the sense of horror that had previously overwhelmed me and being privy to Tristan's return to consciousness had certainly alleviated a great deal of weighty anxiety from my weary shoulders. It also meant that there were scarcely a few moments to obtain tidings from the knights, particularly since they too were mired in considerations of fortifications, protection and galvanising the immediate unification of the Britons. However, towards the end of that same day, as I was preparing to take a new dressing and pain-relieving draught to Tristan, Galahad slumped down heavily onto an upturned and unsurprisingly empty barrel of ale in the corner of the room.

"You look as if you might fall asleep at any moment," I commented with an idle smile, "I daresay Arthur would not thank you for collapsing from exhaustion at this point in time."

"No, you're probably right," he admitted wryly, rubbing a hand wearily across his brow. "In fact, I sneaked in here to enjoy a few moments of well-earned peace and quiet. I hope Arthur knows what the future holds for him and the rest of us better than I do."

Deciding to share his snatched respite break, I too leant against the counter that bore a vast array of essential medicinal brews and precious ingredients in a healer's armoury. "With the support of his loyal men I am certain that he can help this land prosper," I replied softly, my voice ringing with the genuine confidence I felt in that assertion. Perhaps I, like so many others, had fallen under the spell of the legend of Arthur and his Sarmatian knights for I believed that their small band could make a greater difference than even the most ruthless political or military might. The hard won victory over the Saxon hoard had only augmented people's ardent admiration for them and had initiated a small step in improving the relations between the Woads and their former bitter enemy.

Galahad, however, swallowed and seemed not to share this assurance in their capabilities or possibly was troubled by the loss of his friends. "I had dreamt of the moment when I would be granted the freedom to return home to Sarmatia, but now that events have altered so drastically, I cannot imagine leaving Arthur," he said wistfully and I realised how very powerful the bond that had been forged between the men still remained after fifteen years. After a few moment of silent, companionable reflection, he looked up at me with an expression of curiosity contorting his brow. "Isolde, what happened that made you leave the fort so hastily, without even waiting for daylight or to inform us of your intentions? Tristan was out searching for you from dawn till dusk after your abrupt departure and when he came back… well, he was definitely more sullen than _I'd_ ever seen him before!"

I shifted uncomfortably and twisted the bandage around my fingers, suddenly wishing that there was some pretext I could employ to excuse myself from his well-intentioned enquiries. Nevertheless, I would eventually have to answer this question and, if I examined the situation with an honest mind, it was evident that my friends deserved some form of explanation. "I acted foolishly and without proper thought. I fear that I offended Tristan in some way and certainly irrevocably embarrassed myself, so I felt compelled to leave without delay. I should have sent word; for that, I ask for forgiveness," I finished contritely and found that the words came more easily to my lips than I had anticipated although I deliberately refrained from divulging any intimate details of mine and the scout's relationship.

The young, curly-haired knight nodded sagely. "Ah yes, we suspected that Tristan was responsible. He found no sympathy with any of us, especially Vanora – the woman flew into a wild rage and Tristan merely sat there looking quite despondent without a single word of defence." His words made me bite my lip anxiously since I did not like to think that Tristan had suffered for my personal folly and the response that Galahad alluded to seemed most out of sorts for the usually unrepentant scout. On the other hand, Vanora's attack was touching and I looked forward to her imminent return to the wall following her retreat to a safer location prior to the battle. With a great deal on my mind, I bid him farewell and made to make my way to attend the man we had only just been discussing. "Isolde," my friend called as I opened the door. I glanced back with an inquisitive eyebrow cocked. "Take care with your new man. Do you always prefer dark and brooding men?" My mouth dropped open at his teasing insolence and a flush of keen mortification coloured my cheeks. I began to babble a denial of any liaison with Mordred, but when I saw Galahad's roguish grin, I simply turned heel and swept away to the sound of his laughter that followed me down the corridor.

Once I had arrived at the threshold of the scout's sick chamber, I rapped my knuckles sharply on the door and awaited his response with bated breath. I sincerely hoped that my blush had subsided although my pulse had started to quicken afresh for reasons that I still did not wish to vocalise at I had previously done so with dire consequences. When I was bidden to enter, I was confronted immediately by a loud squawk of disapproval that almost caused me to drop all that I was carrying to the rather dirty floor. It was of course Zhiva, who had contentedly alighted onto the back of a chair which she was now jealously guarding from any intruders such as myself. I attempted to haughtily ignore Tristan's persistent smirk at my startled reaction to his kindred raptor, but in the end, I was forced to concede defeat with a sheepish smile. I also desisted from berating him for allowing his feathered companion into the room as I am sure any other healer would feel the compunction to do, even if they did not dare to risk the fearsome knight's scorn.

There was no need to explain my presence to him, but as I ran my eyes over him critically, I was gratified to see a slightly more normal colour to his complexion and that he was sitting upright without any evident signs of pain. His physical condition was slowly improving from a healer's perspective, but I was loathe to admit that this was not the sole factor that concerned me about the man. It would appear that enforced separation did not always remedy unrequited feelings for a lover. I offered him the draught to alleviate any lingering, troubling sensations of discomfort from his graver wounds and then waited as he drained the vessel in a single go, as if he was trying to best Bors in a drinking contest down at the tavern. The unlikely comparison made me smile with a certain degree of fond nostalgia and his easy complicity made we wish that all the charges I had attended with Morgan during my tuition had been so respectful of my measured advice.

After I had accepted the cup back and been meticulous in ensuring that our hands did not brush against each other in the transfer, I addressed him verbally for the first time, "Now I shall need to check that wound on your side and change the dressing." He nodded and together we tugged the loose shirt he wore over his head. I winced out of pure empathy for his pain when I saw his tightly clenched jaw that flexed his unshaven, rugged cheeks as the bandage that I was slowly unravelling brushed against the grievous injury that required my attention. I moved closer to obtain a better view of the jagged cut that stretched across his flank and, upon detailed inspection, was secretly pleased to find that my stitches were sufficient, aiding the natural healing processes. However, when I lightly ran my fingers down the periphery of the mending tissue, I almost jumped at the thrill that coursed through my body at the physical contact; he, for his part, seemed to stiffen almost imperceptibly. Scowling in annoyance about my unprofessional comportment and the mixed memories that enveloped our previous intimacy, I mustered all my briskness and rather swiftly rebound the injury, satisfied that it was clean and free of infection. Perhaps mildly disquieted by my serious expression, Tristan abruptly asked me, "How long then, eh?"

I knew that he wished to find out how long he would be instructed to remain in this room under the duress of his healer and commander. He clearly did not relish the bed rest we imposed upon him, but I was aware that Arthur had unambiguously demanded his solemn word that he would abide by our rules where his health was concerned. After all, the former staunch Roman subject had numerous other concerns to address and could scarcely afford to be distracted by Tristan's stubbornness. "Not much longer, I would say," I replied with a slight shrug. In all honesty, I suspected that he could very well be up and about in the next day or so if he so willed it due to his warrior might and sheer tenacity, but I would not shirk from exerting my authority when excessive strain upon his weakened frame might permanently damage them if he resumed his normal routine too early. "Perhaps in a week, some very gentle exercise might be permitted. Arthur, Gawain, Galahad and Bors will come whenever they are able, so you will not want for company." The news was a disappointment and I did not even have to catch a glimpse of the dark expression on his countenance to become aware of this fact. In fact, it was a rather odd sight to witness such a proud and independent knight confined to his bed as I had hitherto never truly seen evidence of his mortality and human frailties. Hoping to evade his frustration, I ducked my head and silently finished my ministrations on my now noncommittal patient.

Once I had completed my task, I turned around to face Zhiva, who had edged closer to me and was watching me avidly with her beautiful amber orbs. It was vaguely reminiscent of our encounters when I had first met the Sarmatians, when I was still highly tentative in my blossoming affection for Tristan above all of them. "Do you remember me, girl?" I murmured under my breath, stretching out my hand inch by inch towards her chest, but all too mindful of her sharp, curved beak. With a screech of consternation, she launched herself up into the air and promptly soared out of the open window. "Oh dear," I muttered to myself in dismay. Tristan snorted and I turned back to him, "I sincerely apologise for I seem to have driven away your beautiful companion once more."

"Then you stay instead," he told me, not missing a beat in the light-hearted exchange I sought to initiate to detract from my inopportunely surfacing thoughts. "Unless that boy expects you," he added in a decidedly neutral tone although the use of the word 'boy' echoed as deeply dismissive. Galahad's jibe about my relationship with Mordred came back to me and I wondered if his comrade shared this fallacious view of our affiliation. On this occasion though, I made no attempt to assert the truth of the matter, compelled by an insistent inner voice that wished to elicit a response from my former lover. I was partially disgusted with myself that I so greatly desired to see a simple, unmistakeable indication of jealousy on the scout's face, but I found the opportunity to assess Tristan irresistible to impassively disregard. I was ironically disappointed when I could detect nothing of the sort beyond his somewhat enigmatic taunt.

"No, Mordred can wait," I assured him as I seated myself on the newly-vacated chair, even though in reality I had no awareness of the healer's son's current location. He quirked an eyebrow for a fleeting moment, but maintained a resolute silence that was rather disconcerting for me. Although my thoughts had never strayed too far from this very man in my period of absence, I nevertheless had lost my ability to judge his mood or inclinations with any degree of certainty. "Will you enlighten me about what has come to pass here whilst I was living with Morgan and Mordred?" I requested eventually after mentally wrestling with my thoughts for something appropriate to say. Once again, when I mentioned Mordred's name, I made sure to keep a close eye on his subtle reaction and this time, I was rewarded with a possible shadow of a frown that crossed his striking features. I could not help but hope that it reflected some form of jealous sentiment, but I could not rightly affirm this, either aloud to a confidante such as Vanora when she returned or even in private reflection.

"Most likely nothing else that the others haven't already told you," he replied dryly, no doubt alluding to the speculations held by his brothers-in-arms regarding my sudden flight from the fort. I lowered my gaze to his coverlet in a surely guilty admission of the veracity of his insight because I hoped to leave those resoundingly objectionable memories of our very last, heated encounter buried in the past. "What tales do you have? You have changed a lot." He fixed me with a penetrating stare, head cocked pensively on one side and I found it impossible to break the trance that focused on his familiarly entrancing eyes underlined by the distinctive tattoos that arced high on his cheekbones. His admission that my experiences had altered me elicited mixed emotions since I was not completely positive if he intended the statement as a compliment, insult or blunt fact.

"Morgan has instructed me in the healing art with the greatest attention to detail," I began hesitantly, not aware of whether he was taking a wholly genuine interest in my affairs. "I am very glad of it because I could not imagine returning here to such devastation and cold death without the ability to help in some way, however small the difference I can make may be. I feel that I now possess a sense of purpose," I confided quietly, relieved to have the benefit of a person who I knew would listen and refrain from criticising or judging aloud.

He gave a brisk nod of understanding as he shifted into a more comfortable position on the bed. "Aye, I can see that," he said candidly and I wondered at how such a man could appreciate my revelations when his purpose in life as a soldier had been carved out by others many years ago without choice or justice. As always, I had to concede that there was more to Tristan than could be gleaned at first glance.

His sense of infallible honesty and the confidential atmosphere of his secluded chamber were too reminiscent of moments that had long since passed and before I could properly stop myself, I blurted out, "Yes, that is what Mordred tells me." The urge to confirm my suspicions had superseded the bridges that we were slowly rebuilding between us and I was now deeply ashamed to recognise the return of that faint, brief frown on the scout's face. I silently railed against my own spontanwous stupidity: did I truly seek to jeopardise any future chance of a bond of whatever type with Tristan for the sake of a girlish impulse? Indeed, I winced to recognise the unyielding uncommunicativeness that the man adopted like a cloak through the characteristic icy aloofness and stiffness in his posture that I could still readily recall.

With an intense heaviness in my heart, I rose to leave him for the night, but paused at the door. I summoned up all my courage and swivelled to face his stony exterior. "Tristan, I am not…involved with Mordred in any romantic manner," I declared swiftly and earnestly, attempting to mend the harm that I had so recklessly exerted. "I have not taken any lover since…" My words trailed off, but my implication stood unmistakeably and I waited tensely for some sign of either dismissal or, as I desperately hoped, clemency.

Tristan, at last, inclined his head so that his unkempt hair lapsed forward in the charming fashion that inspired great wells of admiration and love within me. It was a gesture of forgiveness. "I know," he acknowledge softly in a way that seemed like the most melodious music to my ears. "Goodnight Isolde." I had been absolved.


	29. Chapter 29

Thanks to those who reviewed chapter 28; it was lovely to read your comments and encouragement as always!

I had actually finished writing this chapter a few days ago, but since it had not come out as I originally intended, I decided to try to alter it, but found that I was simply unable to make the chapter flow if I added all the aspects of Vanora's return and Mordred's trouble as I had intended. This should mean that the next chapter should be posted more swiftly!

Enjoy and let me know your thoughts!

**Disclaimer: **I do not own King Arthur or any of the characters from the film. This is written purely for entertainment purposes only.

* * *

**Chapter 29**

**A Helping Hand**

In the following days, my daily life and work slowly grew less frenetic and even the recollection of the awful day of the battle of Badon Hill seemed dull and distant in my mind. However, Arthur could not afford to act at a more sustainable pace, despite the gathering support of Woads who trickled down from across the now obsolete wall to answer Merlin's call. At the same time, ordinary villagers, men, women and children started to return from their temporary refuges further south, leading to an uneasy, but thankfully bloodless stalemate that settled like winter over the ravaged settlement. I, since discovering the origins of both Morgan and her son, was perhaps more willing to accept their close proximity and indeed the rule of one of their own in the form of Guinevere, but it was evident that a happy union of the Britons, both native and adopted would still require a long period of reconciliation.

I began to hear talk of a mission that was being planned to drive the remnants of the Saxon force truly and utterly from the land with as little further carnage as possible. Apparently, the had been scouting reports that delineated a hiding place not many leagues from our position at which all the remaining invaders were gathering and while they would not have the force of arms to mount any great assault, their persisting presence was unwelcome and further pillaging of the settlements that paved the wave to the Saxons boats could not be rightly risked. As I had been granted temporary lodgings in the building whilst there were still duties to fulfil as a healer, it was not difficult to become privy to such military strategies from the knights with whom I occasionally enjoyed a makeshift meal in the kitchens if Mordred himself was not available. The kitchen was pretty much the sole room in the entire place that had not been commandeered for use as a hospital or provisional hostel for the most vulnerable in the wake of the conflict and thus was almost a guaranteed place to relax somewhat. Bors seemed especially glad of my company because Vanora and their children had not yet arrived back from where they had been waiting for tidings, good or ill, at her mother's house. Therefore, the big, gregarious knight often kept me in admittedly pleasant, amusing conversation until long after I should have taken myself to bed for some sorely-needed rest. It was from him that I received details of the mission that would be led by Arthur to harry the Saxon survivors: "We're leaving tomorrow with some of Merlin's best warriors. It's a pity they can't ride for pittance or we could rout 'em the next day," he complained with a touch of wistful bitterness. The inherent bloodlust within him did not seem to have withered in the slightest, but then, as another thought struck him, he brightened, "But they don't know their way through this godforsaken land and with us on their tails, they'll be bloody terrified!" I smiled at his boyish enthusiasm and wondered how much Vanora was missing all his bluster and exuberance – knowing her as I did, I fancied that she could scarcely wait for their forthcoming reunion although her spoken words might tell a different story. Perhaps their meeting would have to be suspended until after her lover returned with the warriors, but at the very least, I could inform her that he was very much unchanged and unharmed.

"I assume that Gawain and Galahad will travel with you too?" I said curiously as I swallowed the last of the ration of bread and cheese that I had been allotted. After all, it would be the first time that the cavalrymen rode in such a depleted number and only the second as free, willing men.

Bors nodded and confirmed through a mouthful of food, "Course they are. Someone's got to keep an eye on Arthur, haven't they? Mind you, Tristan wasn't too happy when we told him 'bout it." This fact did not cost me any surprise and I imagined that the scout was still brooding darkly in his room now. "You keep an eye or two on him while we're gone, my girl," Bors advised me with a mischievous wink as he set down an empty tankard on the rugged surface of the counter. I silently prayed there would be no trouble.

* * *

After Mordred and I had gone down the gates that morning to see the mixed company of perhaps forty hastily-mustered warriors depart, I decided that I should pay a consolatory visit to Tristan, who was undoubtedly aggravated by his current infirmity. It was heartening to learn that the most experienced and competent healer who oversaw the direst cases of injury after the battle was satisfied with Tristan's state of health and believed that he would not sustain any long-term ill consequences, beyond just a few more cattle scars. When I had told Mordred of the good news, he had merely shrugged nonchalantly, but from the manner in which he turned away to conceal his facial features from my bright, expectant smile, I was convinced that he was inwardly glad to have saved a life, even if a bond of mutual gratitude had not blossomed as a result.

"Hello, Tristan," I greeted my patient tentatively as I entered his room to be confronted with a view of his turned back and only a cursory grunt of acknowledgement. I knew that he was no longer in any great physical discomfort, but suspected that his pride had been sorely wounded when he had been left behind by his brothers-in-arms perhaps for the first time in their long friendship. "How are you feeling?"

At my cautiously posed enquiry he turned to face me with a dark, irritated glower that bore me no specific animosity, but he had certainly made no attempts to mask his frustration behind a neutral façade. "I want to see my horse today," he told me brusquely, approaching me with a leisurely swagger and due to the slightly embarrassing fact that I could not retract my gaze from his intense eyes, I scarcely noticed the still present, albeit lessened limp. "But I suppose I still must ask your permission," he finished with ironic show of passivity when he stood directly before me, his demeanour and sheer stature all emphatically contradicting his deferential tone. It took me a few moments longer than I should have liked to fully gather my composure.

"I would normally advise that a person recovering from injuries as severe as your own should commence with only very short distances," I started, torn between my advice as a healer and my conviction that Tristan could not tolerate his seclusion much longer – already he possessed the semblance of a caged wild beast, eager to break the bonds that rendered him an unwilling prisoner. "However, if you are sure that you feel capable and will not persist with the exercise if it proves detrimental, then I am prepared to license it." I smiled despite my lingering, unspoken reservations to ensure that he was aware of my light-hearted agreement for I had no doubt that Tristan would heed no man or woman's word unless he too approved of it.

Therefore, he doggedly made his way to the door before I could summon the nerve to offer my arm as support and so I merely sighed and followed him closely down the passageway. I kept my eyes fixed on his frame, waiting for any possible sign of pain or fragility in his gait since I could hear the forcefulness with which he expelled his breath as if through tightly gritted teeth. By the time we had reached the stairs that led straight down to the atrium, I was becoming very concerned for the scout's welfare and found it difficult not to take his arm as we drew level in order to gently direct him back to his bed. Any evidence of pain in him elicited sharp pains of empathetic hurt deep within me too. At the summit of the steps, he halted and licked his lips in that curious feline manner that was unique to him. He appeared torn between maintaining his pride and pursuing his independent venture to the stables or suppressing such foolhardy, rash notions. In the end, pride reigned victorious as any vice is wont to do in challenging dilemmas and he began to limp down the stairs, his hand momentarily brushing his injured side in an unconscious admission of discomfort that I could not fail to notice and despair at. I called his name in a querulous protest, but he paid me no heed nor did he deign to turn his head when one of my fellow healer's – a young man whose name eluded me at the time – approached us with an inquisitive eyebrow cocked and a slight frown of disapproval. I almost wished to dare him to master the iron will of the Sarmatian warrior if he thought that he would have more luck with the patient than I, his former lover.

There was a sudden thump accompanied by a hissed, vehement curse as Tristan's leg buckled, causing him to jolt his wounded flank sharply against the wall. I let out a horrified gasp and rushed to his side, my heart pounding to such a degree that it was hard to believe that its heady rhythm was inaudible to those around me. Before I could open my mouth to address my beloved charge, the a voice interjected over my shoulder, "It was most irresponsible to permit him to walk without proper constraints so soon," admonished the healer severely and although I knew that his words had a bitter core of rationality to them, they were certainly unhelpful and unwelcomed by both Tristan and myself. "You had better hope that you have not jeopardised the healing process too greatly by your naïveté. Here, sir, I shall lend you my assistance to return you to your chambers," he said soothingly, laying a hand on Tristan's arm to help him to stand up once more.

The scout, however, would not lightly accept aid from a stranger, least of all one with such a patronising tone as this healer. With lightning quickness that I had grown to admire in him, he seized the other man by the wrist in a vice-like grip. "Do not dare to judge her," he growled dangerously, righteous anger drawing the features of his face into a fearsome expression that made the healer lurch backwards in shock. When he was released roughly, he did not linger in our vicinity. I, on the other hand, felt drained and powerless for it was undeniable that I had been trusted to ensure that Tristan came to no further harm – a task in which I had just failed and I also did not know how to act without stimulating another act of rage that surely had been engendered by mortification. I swallowed deeply in an attempt not to give way to the torrent of tears that threatened to spill over my lashes.

After a moment's pondering and sufficient time for Tristan to return to his usual, thoroughly composed state of being, I carefully sat down close beside him and engaged his reluctant gaze. "Tristan," I whispered tenderly, "let me help you. Please." I was grateful to witness that he did relent at last and, once I had snaked an arm around his waist, we rose to our feet in perfect union. We made our way slowly back towards his room and I supposed that we would have been quite a humorous sight if there was anyone in the building courageous or foolish enough to laugh openly at Tristan for he leant as little weight as possible on me since I was considerably weaker and lighter in build than the knight himself was. Despite the proximity of our bodies, on this occasion I was solely focused on returning him to the room with the minimal fuss possible and so did not even inwardly revel in the renewed touch that we shared, even though I would probably blush over it in retrospect. I breathed a sigh of relief and effort when we eventually arrived back at our starting point without further complications and I was immeasurably glad that Tristan's spark of ire seemed to have all but vanished back from whence it had come. We had silently and implicitly resolved not to mention the events that had just passed again as he sat heavily on the edge of his bed. By default of being interlocked with him, I too sat down next to him, but was struck by the inappropriateness of our situation now that I had successfully fulfilled my supportive role. I sought to salvage my dignity as a healer by asking, "How are your side and leg? Do I need to examine them or fetch you something for the pain?"

"No need," he replied with a shrug, "That is unless you can perform one of the miracles Arthur speaks of." His tone was fairly light as he cast me a protracted, sideways glance through his handsome braids and I smiled instinctively back at him.

"I was not instructed on how to work magic. Healing takes time," I responded, childishly wishing that I was capable of the healing witchcraft which he jestingly alluded to; surely then I could earn his gratitude and affection with relative ease. "I have heard such tales of Merlin though," I said mock- ruminatively. "Would you prefer me to request him to attend your bedside?"

The silent scout snorted and replied with some disdain, "If you are fooled by myth. Besides, I could scarcely appreciate him for his looks, could I?" he countered with a smirk that brought an embarrassing rush of colour to my complexion. What did he rightly suppose he was doing with me? My rational mind told me that I should be morally outraged at his teasing compliment after his poor treatment of me in the past when he had made perfectly clear that he valued me solely as a bed mate. However, I had never been one to be swayed by good judgement, I recalled with rueful self-deprecation and it was a trait that several people had sagely insisted that I remedy throughout my life thus far. As if compounding my weak heartedness deliberately, the sudden nearness of Tristan's face to mine robbed me of all reason, initiating an impromptu and dramatic change in mood in the now seemingly confined space of his private room. At the time, I could not say which of us made the first move, but I cannot deny that when our lips briefly brushed together with the lightness of a feather, to me it was just like the blissful evenings we had passed together before the event that had adopted the guise of a true betrayal in my opinion.

"Isolde," a distant voice murmured, unwelcome and undesired. I sought to ignore it, my eyes flickering between open and shut like the wings of a delicate bird. "I think you should leave." Of course, it was Tristan addressing me – my charge and _former _acquaintance, I hastened to remind myself as the reality of our situation struck me, accompanied by lashings of horror.

"Yes, I really ought to go," I echoed, speaking in a voice that was pitched at a far more shrill tone than was customary for me. "I have many other duties to fulfil," I lied awkwardly as I hurried towards the door without daring to meet his eye. I was certain that he would be silently laughing at my folly – as if he would believe that I considered my attendance upon him and even kissing him a mere duty! I believed I had bettered myself whilst training with Morgan, but I was still prone to behave like a lovesick girl whenever in his presence.


	30. Chapter 30

I apologise for the long wait for this chapter as I've only just finished a period of important exams and am able to concentrate fully on writing again.  
Those of you who added this story to your favourites and Vamsi's flattering comments did not go unnoticed and really made my day!  
This chapter is quite heavy on politics and other characters, but I want to build up to the pivotal event of Arthur's coronation and wedding. Enjoy and please review to let me know what you think!

**Disclaimer: **I do not own _King Arthur _or any of the characters in the film. This is written purely for entertainment purposes.

* * *

**Chapter 30**

**Storm on the Horizon**

I had been informed that the party had recently returned by one of my colleagues, but now that I had been waiting patiently at the door for a period not shorter than five minutes, I was beginning to doubt the legitimacy of their claim. However, I had to admit to myself that it would be an extraordinary feat of imagination or sheer abnormality to mistake anyone else for flame-haired Vanora accompanied by no less than eleven children. I was determined not to give up so easily since I yearned to see my old friend and, at any rate, a dose of her sensible, infallible advice would serve me admirably well now. At last, the door swung inwards by a few scant inches to reveal a scruffy young boy, who was scowling sullenly at both the world at large and thus, by default, myself.

"What do you want?" asked the boy, whom I believed was either number Five or Six. It was apparent that my face was no longer familiar to them; hardly a surprising fact since I had been gone for some time and had never been of significant interest to Bors' brood in the first place. Still unsure of myself when in the presence of children, I tugged unconsciously at the bun at the nape of my neck as a sign of my unease, but nevertheless attempted a kindly smile.

"Is your mother in, Fi-Si…?" I enquired in a hushed, conspiratorial tone, at the last moment unable to decide on the boy's true identity. When he showed no sign of relenting in the face of my unconvincing pretence at amicability, I altered tack swiftly, "I am a friend of your parents and lived nearby not long ago."

A combination of my explanation and the boy's indecision encouraged one of his siblings to peer across the threshold to examine me. She was at least a couple of years her brother's junior, but lacked none of the self-confidence and bravado that was inherent in the entire family. For some reason, I wondered if Bors' comrades were subjected to such scrutiny when they paid a visit to the lively household as I found it hard to imagine how Tristan would respond to such impertinent treatment – that is, if the little rascals would dare to act so disrespectfully with him. I felt my frozen smile slip another notch when the girl whispered something inaudible in her brother's ear, but then I heard a welcome, familiar voice from within the house.

"What are you two doing out there?" yelled Vanora tersely, causing the pair's heads to whirl around guiltily. "Not being troublesome, I hope." The boy quickly retorted with fervent protestations of his innocence and stood back to admit me, dragging his little sister backwards by the arm as well. I murmured a cursory word of gratitude and entered gladly before I was compelled to undergo further interrogation.

"Hello, Vanora, it is Isolde," I called and then waited for her to emerge from the kitchen. I grinned genuinely as soon as I saw my friend appear in the room with a rosy cheeked infant balanced against her hip and an expression of unadulterated astonishment on her face. "I came back eventually," I admitted tentatively when she remained speechless. Then, she seemed to jolt back to her senses and hurried across the room to welcome me with a one armed embrace.

"You've no _idea _how happy I am to see you back," the barmaid insisted. "Whatever were you thinking of? _And_ you left me alone to deal with Bors and the rest of them!" she jested with feigned indignation.

"I am sorry," I assured her truthfully since I had indeed let my friends down, but I vowed that I would never do so again. She waved away my words with a smile and I knew that she held no real grudge against me, but I had a sneaking suspicion that she would tactfully demand the reasons and stories about my abrupt departure later.

"Come and have a drink with me now," she invited me, gesturing to the kitchen and it became clear that the revelations would surface sooner than I had warranted. "I promise those two won't cause you any more grief, but you won't object to meeting number Eleven, will you?" The pair in question was my two interrogators from the door, who were now regarding us with unveiled curiosity and they each sent me identically innocent smiles when I looked their way. Maybe they were not so bad after all, I thought to myself.

"I would be absolutely delighted," I replied warmly, restoratively buoyed by the renewal of our friendship. I had missed a female confidante like Vanora who could lift my spirits or help resolve my problems with genuine candour.

* * *

Several hours later, I departed from Vanora's therapeutic company with a somewhat hoarse voice, but a sensation of levity now that I had unburdened my weary shoulders from my troubles with starting over again in life, Mordred and, of course, Tristan himself. She had advised that I give the scout a wide berth for a few days in order to allow my thoughts to settle properly and so I resolved to ask one of my fellow healers to take over his care tonight, although I harboured some niggling reservations about how he would respond to my sudden, inexplicable change of heart.

As I made my way back to the makeshift hospital of the fort, I halted abruptly when I heard an uproarious clamour further down the main street. Sure enough, when I peered down the road ahead of me, I could distinctly make out a group of men, trading furious words and displaying body language that was by no means very companionable. Even as I looked on, two of the pugnacious adversaries closed in upon their sole opponent, whose build was slighter but posture gave no indications of fear despite being dealt a brutal punch that sent him reeling backwards. I gasped out of sheer reflex since I abhorred being witness to any violence and glanced around me to see if there was any chance of the clearly outnumbered man receiving aid – the street was deserted and I of all people could not be expected to challenge belligerent brutes, unsurprisingly lacking both the courage and experience in brawls.

I sighed heavily and muttered aloud to myself, "Well, I expect to be attending to his war wounds later this evening." A second barrage of kicks and punches were exchanged on both sides, but predictably, the lone fighter was driven backwards, closer towards me and so I made up my mind that now would be a wise time to retreat. However, the force of one the men's blows completely spun the beleaguered man to expose his visage to me and I felt both horrified and distraught when I recognised him. "Oh, Mordred! What have you done now?" I apostrophised quietly, still looking around urgently for aid in any guise, motivated by a wrenching guilt that I could stand idly by while my friend was attacked – an unworthy coward, I berated myself.

Then, it seemed that my hopes were realised for a Woad man in the midst of his years approached the group from the opposite direction and in his native, guttural tongue, he addressed them harshly. All fighting ceased instantaneously at the very sound of his voice and I guessed that this character could only be Merlin himself since only the leader of the Woads could surely inspire such respect and obedience from his people and his almost mystical appearance, complete with wild clothes and blue tattoos matched the awed descriptions I had gleaned from hushed gossip. Even Mordred listened to Merlin and waited, wiping the blood from his jaw as the leader dispersed his belligerent men. Although I did not wish to intrude and held no great desire to engage the fabled 'dark magician of the north' in conversation, I could not ignore his implicit summons when he met my wide-eyed gaze over my friend's hunched, sullen shoulders. Mordred's expression was deeply mutinous and he refused to face me when I approached, instead choosing to glower at his saviour resentfully and nurse his facial cuts and swellings, which thankfully seemed not overly severe to my trained eyes.

"I apologise for the barbarous behaviour of my people, lady. Their trust is not easily won once lost," Merlin said to me in his lilting tone, leaving me somewhat astounded by his ready courtesy. However, a penetrating glance towards Mordred as he spoke informed me that he also berated Mordred for his actions at the same time, despite the fact that I never truly envisaged my fiercely independent friend as possessing any allegiances other than to himself, let alone to the Woads.

"It is no matter," I replied haltingly, embarrassed that such an important figure in recent events in Britain's fate had witnessed my indecision and anguish at the periphery of the brawl. "I quite understand that this is a difficult situation." He bowed his noble head graciously in acknowledgment of my words.

"A friend of Morgan should undoubtedly be a friend to all of us and in fact I have a small request to make of you once I have talked to Mordred of his path in life," Arthur's former adversary told me solemnly, ignoring Mordred's obvious, albeit unvocalised objection to this proposed discussion. Anxious to avoid further conflict, I subtly placed a soothing hand on Mordred's arm in an attempt to convey the need for uncharacteristic restraint on his part. Either my inconsequential tactic or Merlin's undeniable sense of authority worked their magic, for Mordred grudgingly followed the man a few paces away from me in order to converse or argue as they case might be in private sanctity.

Although they spoke for only a matter of minutes, the gravity of their discourse was palpable even from my relative distance and I felt a pang of sympathy for my beleaguered friend since he had been bombarded physically and verbally in short succession. In fact, he appeared duly rather subjugated and morose, lacking the fire that usually smouldered in his belly and when Merlin had expended all his words of wisdom, Mordred slunk back to me like a beaten stray dog. For the sake of solidarity, I gently squeezed his hand, mindful to avoid his bruised and bloodied knuckles.

"I don't belong here, Isolde," he murmured softly. "I am too much of a Woad to be accepted wholeheartedly by the locals who dwell in this place and deemed no better than a traitor by some of the Woads themselves."

"That's not true," I replied emphatically, "Besides, now that the Romans and Saxons have been denied their grasp on power, there is a place for all people, regardless of blood or history. Take myself as a living example of the fact!"

Mordred remained unconvinced despite the earnestness of my assertions and muttered with downcast eyes, "You're safe here. I should travel north again." Before I could argue against this folly that had unfortunately ingrained itself in his consciousness, Merlin's approach brought our exchange to a sudden, tense conclusion. I recalled the stranger's words that he had intended to request of favour of sorts from me and I could not deny a sense of intense curiosity as to its exact nature.

Mordred withdrew to his temporary lodgings with a curt nod and I was left feeling a niggling sense of vulnerability in the presence of such a feared and sometimes grudgingly respected man. "I believe you are the healer in charge of Tristan, one of the loyal Sarmatian knights," Merlin intimated in his hypnotic voice and I wordlessly nodded with a lightly furrowed brow, taken aback by his ready knowledge of our affairs. "Take me to him. I seek his help about Arthur and the future of this land."

My initial response was a bewildered smile for I could not imagine Tristan figuring at the forefront of plans for social cohesion and political negotiations beyond anything that could be achieved at knifepoint. A distinct lack of jocundity reflected on Merlin's face quickly spurred me to comply with his unforeseen demand and so on our silent journey back to our quarters I fervently prayed that Tristan would not react adversely to such a visitor on an unequivocally crucial mission ifI had not overestimated his turn of phrase.

The trio of us crowded into that small, unassuming room certainly consisted of an unlikely melange of individuals: the prominent rebel leader, a former vassal of Rome and a humble healer with an admittedly atypical past. Merlin himself had asked me to remain with them and thus I stood rather stiffly by the door, attempting in vain to evade Tristan's piercing stare.

"I shall be blunt," the Woad began, as if instantly knowing that Tristan sustained no tolerance for dithering or minced words. "This country will descend into chaos without a clear hand of leadership. I want you to convince Arthur to accept a crown and unite the peoples of Britain under a single sovereignty." My jaw fell slack with amazement and I glanced rapidly between the countenances of Merlin and Tristan, but both had ensured that they maintained an iron guard of impassibility.

"_King Arthur_," Tristan pronounced slowly, sardonically allowing the unfamiliar title to mull in his mouth, almost as if he was tasting the very words to gage their relative merit. I freely conceded that I too struggled to reconcile the proposal forwarded by Merlin with the modest man whose allegiance had only recently been cut away from Rome. "Why do you seek to bestow this honour on him, eh? He'll not want it," Tristan denied, his tone noticeably sharper than it had been just moments before. It reminded me of his ability to utilise his innermost emotions as tools in his arsenal before submerging them at the mildest of inclinations.

Merlin seemed distinctly unfazed by the flat refusal to aid his cause, but he had not achieved his high position in his society without a measure of tenacity and guile. "Would he not be willing to do his duty to safeguard the country and bring peace to those who have suffered for too long?" he asked rhetorically, leaving the pertinent question alone to challenge Tristan's reservations. Duty was Arthur's noteworthy Achilles heel and I knew that it could easily form part of a resounding argument to persuade Arthur, especially if Tristan, as a trusted friend, were to deliver the petition.

I watched Tristan closely now and without thinking of our personal matters, only of Arthur's role. It was undeniable that he possessed many qualities worthy of a distinguished ruler, but could he be expected to burden himself with the woes of Britain. There was another concern besides this that troubled me and I summoned up the courage to ask it, granting Tristan more time to consider Merlin's request, "Surely not all the Woads will willingly accept a Romano-British king's authority above your's and that of the clan leaders?"

"I do not expect that Arthur will rule alone. A strong queen at his side may alleviate some of the Woads' misgivings." Thoroughly confused, I met Tristan's knowing gaze and he nodded, indicating that he would explain these cryptic words another time. Therefore, I decided to suppress the subsequent myriad of questions that sprung to the forefront of my mind that whirred with a strange thrill of excitement at witnessing the birth of such a momentous plan in the course of history. All that remained now was to hear whether Tristan would agree to play his part if he believed without doubt that this was the right decision for both his friend and the land that had become his home.


	31. Chapter 31

Hello to you all again! This is a reasonably long chapter because I wanted to set the scene politically for the new Britain and whilst Tristan does feature, there will be lots more about him and Isolde in the next chapter.

On another note, the Woad clan names are genuine as there were various tribes in Scotland during this period that were divided into approximately seven kingdoms overall. The personal names I have used for the rulers and leaders of these tribes are also authentically Celtic, but records are too incomplete to link actual rulers to their relevant clans for a specific era.

As always, enjoy and let me know if you have any comments or suggestions for improvement on the closing chapters of this story!

**Disclaimer: **I do not own _King_ Arthur or any of the characters in the film. This is written purely for entertainment purposes.

* * *

**Chapter 31**

**Triumphant Return**

There was a palpable energy that had infected all the diverse nooks and crannies of the fort's society after the new guards of the gate had sighted Arthur and Guinevere's returning party of warriors. Whilst the knights had always attracted a great deal of admiration from the local denizens, especially from their burgeoning gaggle of female devotees, I had certainly never detected the same level of excitement in the open public spaces there. I made my way towards the gates, ostensibly to fulfil my role as healer if necessary, but also to greet my friends. Mordred had bluntly rebutted my invitation to accompany me, but even this failed to diminish the spring in my step as I recalled Merlin and Tristan's weighty discourse a few days previously and the fact that Arthur, a man whom I considered as a friend and guardian, might become the ruler of this green isle. It was possible that Tristan would not consent to play his part in convincing Arthur, but from what he had told me of Arthur's beloved Woad woman, I sincerely reckoned that he might be won over to the cause regardless, but definitely requiring more effort than a few simple words of encouragement from his trustworthy scout.

"Isolde!" Vanora called over the din of the crowd surrounding the main entrance road. I tentatively edged my way through the throng of people of all ages and occupations, trying without much success not to displace or irritate anyone before I reached her and her children's prime position at the front. "I wagered word must've gotten round to you by now. I tell you, Bors is _not _going anywhere else after this mission for a long time! Does he think it's easy looking after this lot, minding the house and serving drunkards every night all by myself?"

I had to admit that she was not in an enviable situation, but the main thing I had learnt about Vanora was that she always coped with all the hardships life could through at her. "Well, for one, your workload at the tavern should be far less draining without the Sarmatians here, particularly Bors," I jested with a teasing grin that she matched with a broad one of her own.

However, the eagerly awaited opening of the gates interrupted any reply she might have intended to make and a scattered cheer erupted from onlookers as Arthur rode through at the head of his modest force. I allowed my withheld breath to escape when I swiftly counted the three other knights at his side, all apparently in fine fettle and unscathed and then came the Woads on foot painted in ceremonial blue. The proud bearing of the warriors and their evident high spirits revealed that my immediate attentions were superfluous.

"Over 'ere, you great brute!" yelled Vanora to her partner alongside her children's cheers and I laughed to hear such an epithet used in their own peculiar guise of affection. The shout was rendered effective when it drew Bors away from the main group over to where we were standing. He had no eyes for anyone else bar the family he was utterly devoted to and their loving bond brought a strange lump to my throat that made me look back towards the more rallying sight of the triumphant troops. Arthur and the others dismounted gracefully as Jols and his assistants came forward to take their weary horses for some well-deserved rest and sustenance in the stables. Therefore the crowd gradually began to disperse and return to the banality of routine as the Woads too disbanded to head back to their quarters, chattering away in their unintelligible tongue.

"Isolde, is all well here?" Arthur enquired politely when he joined Bors. I considered informing him about the difficulties I had encountered, first with Tristan's impatience and then with Mordred's belligerence, but in the end these seemed trivial matters to concern him with and so I merely replied that nothing was amiss and asked after his own fortunes. "We met with success and, God willing, I do not think that the Saxons will trouble the people again. Ah, I would like to introduce you to Guinevere," he interjected suddenly, with an enthusiastic undertone to his usually measured voice and I smiled openly at the slender, striking brunette he gestured too. She appeared to be of a similar age to myself with dark, shrewd eyes, but otherwise unremarkable from her compatriots. However, my knowledge gleaned from both Tristan and Merlin told a very different story.

"You must be Isolde," she said kindly, surprising me a little more than I was willing to show. The genteel meeting seemed somewhat odd to me since I continued to exchange pleasantries with a woman who was forbiddingly armed and potentially the future queen of the British people. Gawain and Galahad were next to greet me with wide smiles and comradely claps on my shoulder that bore sufficient force to elicit a fleeting scowl of mock irascibility from me, but a lot less stinging than the fraternal clouts they dealt Tristan when he made an appearance at the scene.

"Ah, Tristan, you're looking much better! It's a shame Isolde forbade you from riding with us," Galahad joked at my expense.

"You would've enjoyed the battles, my friend," Gawain uttered conspiratorially, resting a powerful hand on the shaft of his axe. "We had those Saxons falling left, right and centre…"

"Yeah, yeah," their brother-in-arms replied dismissively, knowing that they were attempting to goad him into jealousy. "And you each slit the throats of ten score Saxons, no?" I had to laugh at the expression of disappointment that flickered across Galahad's innocent visage when he realised that their mind games had no effect on the perceptive scout.

"Perhaps you slew the ten score of vicious barbarians between you," I added with some amusement, patting Galahad's arm in placation.

Tristan ignored the further jibes that Bors bellowed at him from the midst of his family huddle and instead grasped my arm loosely, jerking his head sideways to indicate his desire to retreat from the hustle of the high-spirited reunion. I swallowed uncomfortably, glad that he could not possibly sense the tingling of my skin beneath his grip and the feeling of my innards' acrobatics. I had hoped that I might be able to pursue Vanora's policy of distance from him after our charged kiss and then the unavoidable discussion with Merlin. Tristan, it seemed, was unwittingly foiling my good intentions. Once we were a scant few feet away from the excited clamour, he asked me in a lilting undertone, "Do you trust Merlin?"

I was a little taken aback by the sudden query that he posed and opened my mouth wordlessly in a charmless fashion before I managed a response, "I see no cause for any deception on his part. Would he not wish for a strong ruler to protect his people and unite the land?" He smiled humourlessly, unconsciously drawing my attention to the subtle bow of his lips.

"You really believe Arthur can do that, don't you? Bring peace by wearing a crown," he derided with a shake of his head and my stance stiffened instantly at his mockery. Perhaps there was some truth in his words that I did feel optimistic about the new future, but was I not entitled to feel hope for once without being regarded as a simpleton?

"Do you doubt him?" I retorted quietly, but no less forcefully than if I had announced it from the city walls. My response was met with inscrutable silence and I looked back at the gathering of people behind us, especially Arthur at its heart – erect, benevolent and strong.

Eventually, the former Roman scout shrugged nonchalantly and I returned his dark gaze as evenly as I could. "Aye then, you win, Isolde," he uttered ironically and then he slipped past me before the flash of bemusement had the opportunity to reach my face.

* * *

I felt like a charlatan as I snuck into the main hall. My best crimson dress and the glossy brunette locks that I had wrestled into a semblance of orderliness seemed like a disguise that I had adopted after the long months during which I had chosen to garb myself in only the most practical, minimalist clothes. This evening, however, was an occasion worthy of the effort since I had been invited to a feast to celebrate the newfound security of the country, hosted by Arthur with the beautiful Guinevere at his side. The knights, Merlin and many more notable figures from both sides of Hadrian's Wall were already seated around the almighty round table when I crossed the threshold and thankfully they were mostly too absorbed in drinking or talking animatedly to their neighbours to notice my arrival. After quickly scanning the table for a vacant seat and to pick out any familiar faces, I was dismayed to see that flame-haired Vanora was absent; most likely due to the necessity of minding her new born infant.

Fortunately, as I side-stepped the oncoming stream of young servants bearing countless pitcher of abandoned Roman wine, Gawain eyes were drawn towards me and he shouted out me name, beckoning me with a welcoming, unabashed gesture. I circled the table to where he was seated with his comrades and met him with a grateful smile.

"Do you think you could move your fat arse down, Bors? Our fair lady needs somewhere to sit," Gawain said, giving Bors a helping shove to make room for me between them. Bors grunted, disgruntled, when he managed to slop a hefty measure of his crimson wine over the rim of the goblet, but nevertheless received me with easy amicability. I returned Galahad's ebullient greeting and offered Tristan my sweetest smile in return for a brisk nod of acknowledgement – it seemed that someone else at least was equally uncomfortable as I felt in this familiar environment that had now been transformed into a formal social arena, filled to the rafters with those hoping to ingratiate themselves. I supposed I also had the unfair advantage of having been raised in the company of nobility, occasionally attending the banquets and social festivities that either my uncle or his wealthy associates delighted in hosting.

I looked down towards Arthur as he rose slowly to his feet, effectively silencing all the vibrant personalities that had gathered for the feast. "New friends and old, I welcome you to this hall today to celebrate the ensured safety of the people that you have helped wrought by uniting against the Saxons," he praised candidly at the beginning of one of his captivating speeches. He was momentarily interrupted by a spontaneous toast to victory that spread swiftly around the table, leaving me to raise my empty goblet that had not yet been filled with the rich wine the others were enjoying so greatly. "But this cannot be the end of our alliance for, if there is anything that we can learn from the defeat of the Saxons and the failure of the Roman Empire, it is that no rule can be maintained if we stand divided. As Publius Syrus wrote in the era of Julius Caesar, 'where there is unity, there is always victory' and let us hereby live with this sentiment in our minds," Arthur concluded with evident earnestness burning bright in his green eyes and the vast majority of his audience applauded liberally or cheered in accordance. Spellbound as I was, I noticed that there was a couple of Woad clan leaders whose stormy visages remained unaltered, perhaps their lips became subtlety contorted by sneers of disapproval. Tristan too had not engaged in the celebrations, preferring to sup his wine and observe the guests with the piercing eyes of his hawk. When he felt my gaze and shifted slightly to face me quizzically, I wanted desperately to ask him how he had sought to convince Arthur to accept the kingship and most of all, whether he would dare take on the immense responsibility for the man had not alluded to this in the slightest.

Yet when Merlin, who had thus far remained stock still and utterly silent on Arthur's right stood up by the former commander's side, I realised that further revelations were still to come. I, like so many around the remarkable round table, felt a tingle of anticipation and blatant curiosity. "This ravaged land needs strong and just governance. As one invested with the power to speak for the people who dwelt north of the Wall, I pledge our support to Arthur so that he might be King of all Britons and truly restore peace and prosperity," declared Merlin, working his charismatic charms over the entire room. Since I had possessed some prior inkling as to the nature of his words, I was less struck by awe than even the three knights who had ridden with Arthur on his last mission. I even failed to suppress a chuckle as Bors knocked his goblet sideways by mistake and, for the second time that evening, spilt wine over himself. The inappropriate action from the pair of us passed wholly unnoticed or without rebuke due to our fellow diners' fixation upon the future king.

Was there an expression of reluctance or trace of a heavy heart on Arthur's face as he took centre stage again at Merlin's behest? "I am willing to accept this role with Guinevere at my side as my wife and Queen, but only if the majority who sit before me approve," he announced humbly and seemed to directly address each and every person present. Guinevere too gazed searchingly around the table while she sought out Arthur's callused, warrior's hand with her own, her eyes falling especially on the Woads who I had selected as appearing to wholeheartedly disapprove of Arthur's presence in their midst and indeed the fact that he still drew breath. In fact, recognition suddenly dawned on me that one of this unsavoury pair was the man who had venomously confronted Mordred and I as we had ridden Murtagh with all haste towards the battlefield of Badon Hill.

"I, Carvorst of the Circinn pledge my allegiance to Arthur for the sake of my people," began a strong Woad in a forceful tone of voice that complemented his wild appearance. In my opinion, he looked like a valuable ally to have won over to the cause of unification, merely because his sturdy build and obvious authority would prove formidable opposition. His readiness to extend his fealty to Arthur and Guinevere laid down a political challenge to the other leaders in the hall to make an unprecedented decision over the future of the country.

"And I, Gaius Capito, former Governor under the authority of Rome, now offer my support and experience to Arthur. I believe there is no better candidate for the sovereignty of Britain than this man."

"I, Queen Agrona of Fib, am in accordance," intoned a solemn woman with sharp features and greying locks. It seemed that Merlin had worked hard to secure this diplomatic victory that could not have been predicted even a matter of weeks beforehand. Next, however, my optimism was shattered abruptly when both of the Woads who openly detested Arthur asserted in rapid succession that they refused to submit to a 'Roman tyrant' once more, especially when they had lost numerous kinsmen at his command and own hands. I committed their names to memory, believing that their role in the land's fortunes was not concluded at this premature stage: Talorcan, King of the Verturiones of Fortriu and Uvan of Taexali, who was already known to me. There was a murmur of disquiet at the divide that now split the table and Guinevere was inflamed, clearly ready to denounce the Pict clansmen with all the fiery passion she possessed if only Arthur had not silently diffused the tension with a soothing hand on her arm.

Perhaps swayed by this show of defiance or more guarded than her decisive compatriots, a second Woad woman who represented the Cait tribe stood and spoke without shame, "On behalf of my people, I will withhold judgement of Arthur, neither recognising him as King nor impeding his resolutions until he can be deemed honourable and worthy of the supreme authority which he seeks to hold." The situation was quickly worsening as Arthur's favourable reception had dwindled upon the proclamation of Merlin's proposal until his opponents and supporters were almost equal in number – hardly the majority he required to justifiably start a reign, but frustratingly not far off it. Understandably, my friends were angered by the resistance posed by some of the Woads, believing that Arthur's presence in Britain and leadership in the battle against the Saxon enemy was proof enough of his devotion. Galahad, impetuous as ever, even leapt to his feet to berate them, but Tristan acted amazingly swiftly to drag the younger man back onto the bench to save Arthur from further diplomatic embarrassment. Galahad was hardly a tactful or measured speaker at the best of times, quite the antithesis of Tristan's meticulously neutral countenance.

I clenched my hands into tight fists to try to dissipate some of the tension that had spread like a fever throughout my body and silently wished that I could benefit from Tristan's calming touch too. After several long, unbearable moments of silence when everyone seemed to be at an irrevocable stalemate, Mordred burst in through the doorway in a scene that rang with pure theatricality and suspense. I murmured his name in quiet confusion and a fair amount of apprehension. Once he had drawn close to the round table and had secured the rapt attention of us all, he looked first to Merlin, Arthur and lastly, me and affirmed in an atypically resounding voice, "I swear fealty as the lawful and rightful heir of the Fidach clan."

The relief of Arthur's supporters was matched with rivalling intensity by the muted outrage that emanated from Talorcan and Uvan. A relieved smile flooded across my face, to which Mordred replied with a fleeting wink and I knew from the gradual dispersal of the overwrought atmosphere in the room that the majority of the Woad clans had been convinced to choose the right side, albeit with reluctance. Arthur alone seemed largely unaffected by the partitions and narrow victory, but nodded graciously without elation or disappointment when Merlin toasted him as King Arthur and his daughter as Queen Guinevere.

"Arthur, a king!" exclaimed Bors in disbelief, digging me in the side with his elbow and Gawain was rendered almost speechless in bemusement. This state did not persist too long:

"Aye, and you know what this means for us?" the tawny-haired knight questioned our group rhetorically. "He can give us any pompous title we want! Hey, Tristan, how do you fancy being overlord of some godforsaken piece of this island?"

The scout pretended to gravely consider the ridiculous prospect and after some thought, he retorted evenly, "If it means I can keep your ugly mug out of my sight, then yes." We burst out laughing, earning glares of unveiled antipathy from both retinues of Uvan and Talorcan who were in the process of skulking out of the hall in a boycott of disrespect before the servants had finished setting platters of delectable food before each of us.

"What do you say, Isolde: in your honest, female opinion, which of us two is the more attractive?" countered Gawain slyly, enveloping me in an awkward, one-armed hug. He was very aware of my discomfiture with Tristan and hoped that it would work to his advantage in the mild dispute as if I would seek to distance myself from the man whom I had been readily infatuated by.

I paused before replying and pondered how I could both implicitly reprimand Gawain for placing me on the spot whilst not causing Tristan any serious unease in the process. Following the dubious example of the Sarmatians, I augmented my audacity by draining my newly replenished fine goblet in a single fluid motion. "On the basis of physical appearance, you are both equally…attractive, I suppose," I said, struggling to find a more appropriate word to describe their disparate, rugged good looks and this pause elicited snorts of amusement from the other two knights. I could not help but notice that Tristan was entirely motionless and his posture more stiff than usual, as if bracing himself for an insult. "_However, _if Tristan shall be receiving governorship of this estate that you have spoken you, Gawain, then he is the more attractive option for a lady; for who does not wish to be the lady of a powerful lord?"

A deathly hush fell across the four men and I coloured richly as I believed I had overstepped the mark of credibility by too great a margin. In fact, Galahad's mouthful of venison went unswallowed and even Bors, whose ravenous appetite was unparalleled momentarily stopped in his tracks. Last of all, I shot Tristan a coy sideways glance to find him staring rather intently at me before he caught my gaze and shrugged, returning his attention to his dinner. Finally, Bors broke out into howls of glee and patted me on the shoulder in delight. "Oi, Arthur!" he shouted down the table, retracting the man's devoted gaze from Guinevere on his left, but this customary lack of reserve from Bors failed to elicit much more than raised eyebrow from the new king. "Tristan's going to be asking you to make him a lord with all the trimmings very soon!"


	32. Chapter 32

Thanks for the feedback and readers who have added this story to alerts or favourites – it is nice to know that some readers are still interested. This chapter is set a few weeks later and so we bypass the wedding preparations and coronation of Arthur and Guinevere to get to the hopefully juicy aftermath! I hope Tristan remains staunchly in character in your opinions, but if I stray, let me know as soon as possible please!

I realise that this is a quick update and I also have finished writing chapter 33, so will post that too when everyone who wants to has had the opportunity to read and review this one.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own _King Arthur _or any of the characters from the film. This is written purely for entertainment purposes.

* * *

**Chapter 32 **

**After the Wedding**

Out of breath and with a racing heart, I let loose a burst of gleeful laughter as the handsome man spun me into his wiry arms. This upbeat dance had come to a heady conclusion with a charming, softly-spoken young Briton, but the wedding and coronation festivities of Britain's first royal couple in living memory had engaged me in the infectious joy, merriment and dancing for far longer. Although I was reserved by nature, I had initially been cajoled into playing a more active part by Vanora and Bors with whom I had watched the earlier more solemn ceremonies. Besides, it was virtually impossible not to be swept up in the unanimous ambience of genuine optimism and delight of Arthur and Guinevere's staunch supporters alongside the added boon of the focal couple appearing touchingly ardent in their affection for each other. The intervening period since Arthur's narrow approval by the most notable Woad clans had dulled the sense of tension and the opposition had long since withdrawn from the vicinity out of protest over an Anglo-Roman king.

After I had cordially thanked my dance partner for the pleasure of his company and blushingly accepted his compliments, I decided to make my way away from the centre of the dancing that was taking place in the fields outside the fort's great stone walls. Bors and Vanora had disappeared from sight and I did not reckon any search attempts through the jubilant revellers would be rewarded with success due to the sheer numbers of people who had gathered here. Gawain and Galahad had united to launch a formidable assault against the virtue and good sense of the most pretty women present and I shook my head in mild disapproval as I caught glimpses of their clearly enamoured targets, flattered and engaged in equal measure. In fact, the only one of my acquaintances who was wholly unoccupied was, somewhat unsurprisingly, Tristan, who was leaning against the arching bow of one of the pavilions that offered shelter from the elements and a place to rest one's weary feet after excessive dancing. Uninhibited by the fresh air and celebrations, I decided that my best option was to join him so that I could obtain momentary respite from those bold young men who sought to dance the night away to the minstrels' songs with any free maiden. The scout's fearsome, soundless presence alone would surely guarantee this.

In want of a pastime more suited to his character, he had settled for scanning the crowd before him, paying particular attention to Arthur's frequent movements between groups of well-wishers and an insouciant, tolerant roll of his eyes of his comrades' romantic escapades. Perhaps he was attracted by my approach in the corner of his line of vision or possibly he had been tracking my activities too, but he unmistakeably met my gaze steadily as I came towards him, enrapturing me with his unique magnetism. Then the moment of utter connection was abruptly shattered by a light yet insistent touch on the sleeve of my dress.

"Isolde, where are you going?" Mordred asked with a furrowed brow and from the slight slur of his speech, I could recognise the signs that he had indulged too extensively in wine, mead or ale tonight.

I smiled amusedly at him for I had not previously seen this more liberated side of him that, when imbued with potent alcohol, would happily accost me at the centre of such a festivity. I sincerely hoped that he had not imbibed more than his slight body could duly tolerate and had not been motivated by the glum isolation he suffered in this settlement. "I was intending to take a short while to rest as I am not yet very accustomed to dancing," I replied, unwittingly glancing back towards Tristan to check if he was still observing me as closely as before: indeed he seemed to be. My wandering attention did not escape the notice of Mordred, in spite of his slightly inebriated mien and I almost cursed the fact that he both knew me so intimately and had perfected the skills of a master hunter in the wild forest by which he had formerly dwelt.

"Why would you wish to join _that _man?" he spat, honestly perplexed as he remained by my persisting fascination for a lover who had so emphatically scorned and ruined me. "Come, let us dance together and forget the fool who always lurks in the shadows." I pursed my lips tersely at his ridiculous turn of phrase and abnormal desire to engage in the revelry of others. Nevertheless, I was unable to open my lips to rebuff his invitation before he had tugged me towards his chest in a rather cavalier manner to move in vague timing with the lyrical tune of the pipers. Since neither of us were especially accomplished or well-practised in the art of dance, we made an awkward couple and I gritted my teeth in an effort to restrain my insolent urges to desert my friend in order to preserve some small quantity of my dignity.

"Mordred, we have been meaning to thank you all night for your timely support," announced Guinevere warmly as the new king and queen found their way towards the pair of us. I seized the opportunity to free myself from the man's grasp and Guinevere's radiant, mischievous smile informed me that she had interrupted for my sake; no doubt she had experienced her fair share of unwelcome attention tonight and ever since rumour had dictated her vital importance in the future of this united country. I murmured an abstract excuse to Arthur and turned on my heel to pursue my original intention of treating my tired body to well-earned rest and my heightened senses to less frantic stimulation in the cool darkness that permeated towards the edge of the gathering.

"Is it fear of exacerbating your wound that keeps you from partaking or are you simply not a dancer?" I enquired with a gently teasing tone; I strived to maintain more tact than I had in settling the dispute between Gawain and Tristan, but my spirits could not be entirely suppressed for any man's whim tonight. "As your healer, I can grant you dispensation to enjoy yourself!" My companion snorted, unconvinced by my definition of enjoyment. "Maybe another occasion then," I finished lightly, idly twisting the fabric of my dress' skirt in my fingers out of nervous habit.

"We'll see," he replied dryly and my heart flipped within my chest merely at the sight of a quirk of his lips. I bit my own lips in an effort to eliminate the urge to kiss them impulsively, but I thanked my good fortune that I had resolved not to drink overmuch tonight for the winning combination of the atmosphere and intoxicating liquid might have been my downfall. "You do not want for willing partners though."

This was true, but all of a sudden, it became a matter of regret to me and I inwardly wished that I had not indulged in as many dances as I had, especially the last with Mordred under the penetrating stare of the scout. For reasons that were nonsensical or unclear at the time, I found the thought of Tristan believing that I was growing enamoured with Mordred insufferable. "I enjoyed myself in their company, I suppose, but now I should rather prefer to watch," I told him shyly, yearning for him to understand my underlying concerns. He nodded silently and we stood in the kind of easy peace that I had only ever encountered at first hand with him. Every now and then, I snuck him a sly glance that he either ignored or failed to notice.

There was a constant stream of people passing by us, but when Tristan spied an enthusiastic teenage helper wandering by with numerous vessels of drink nestled in the crooks of his arms, he plucked one out for himself with unrivalled stealth. The boy and I bore matching expressions of surprise, albeit mine was tempered more by mirth than by the reverence in the lad's. "Carry on then," Tristan growled to the slack-jawed boy, but I could tell that it was meant without malice. Its efficacy was undeniable and once again we were left in blessed peace together. "Want some?" he asked, offering the pitcher to me after sampling a sizeable volume of the mystery drink. A little astounded by his antics and the thoughtful gesture, I ended up solely staring at him mutely for several seconds before accepting the vessel with quiet gratitude. Rich, honey sweet mead trickled leisurely down my throat, filling me with warmth.

"What?" I enquired in bemusement, cocking my head sideways when I passed the jug back to Tristan only to feel the colour rush to my cheeks upon perceiving his profound, searching stare. He looked away unhurriedly, which left me a little unsettled, but not in a completely unpleasant regard. After all, I was guilty of looking longingly at him too many times to count, but had it truly been the same longing that I felt so burningly that I had just now detected in his enigmatic eyes?

My physical exertions and the relaxing effect of the drink that Tristan and I were sharing caught up with me, causing a potent wave of fatigue to wrack my body and mind. I concealed a yawn behind my hand, but realised that I had better head off to bed before I began to doze on Tristan's shoulder. Since Gawain and Galahad had now made further progress with their respective female conquests for the night, I decided not to disturb them, but I made sure that I waved farewell to Arthur and Guinevere through the still vivacious gathering before I returned to my quarters. Their presence would be sorely missed by everyone when they too decided to retire to privacy as man and wife for the first time.

"Thank you for the mead and your company too," I addressed the tattooed scout beside me, "But I really think that I ought to return home now. Goodnight," I wished him amiably, trying to dispel the disappointment that coursed through me at our parting. He inclined his head in acknowledgement and straightened up as I turned away.

"Wait a moment then," he ordered gruffly, shaking a stray braid out of the way of his face. It took my muddle brain several seconds to comprehend that he intended to walk me back to the safety of my chamber and I started to protest that this was unnecessary aloud, although secretly I was highly gladdened by the prospect of spending more time in his presence. Naturally, he dismissed my avowals wordlessly and so I relented, allowing him to lead our passage away from the bright fires and hypnotic songs that rang clearly through the crisp night air. Coincidentally, we passed the same awestruck young lad from whom Tristan had earlier commandeered the vessel of mead, who was now gazing, enraptured, at the young queen from some distance away. In his inimitable, cool fashion, he disposed of the pitcher directly back into the young man's slack hands, not batting an eyelid as the poor boy struggled frantically to keep a purchase on it through his surprise. I was forced to fight valiantly to keep a persistent grin from my countenance as I thanked the pitiful victim fleetingly.

When we had reached a few feet out of earshot, I burst into helpless giggles, much to the wry amusement of my companion, illustrated economically by a simple raise of his fine brow. I was glad that I had not lost the ability to discern his moods from such modest indications. "You are wicked," I admonished him once I had regained control of my voice, but my heart was clearly not in the reproof.

"Perhaps," he admitted with a nonchalant shrug, picking idly at a loose thread that had worked its way free of the rough, dark fabric of his jerkin. We walked at a leisurely pace, both of us taking pleasure in the marginally more tranquil settings and the enchanting sight of the unveiled stars twinkling in the inky sky above our heads. Glancing backwards though, I could still see the silhouettes of the men and women who continued to enjoy the celebrations because we had not travelled more than a hundred feet or so in this short time. This proved to be problematic for the pair of us as we turned in unison at the sound of an impatient male voice harshly calling my name.

Neither of us made any motion to approach the unwelcome interloper, but I feared rightly that it was Mordred even before he stood in front of us with a dark, stubborn look that I had come to know so well during the spats between him and his fiery mother. Tristan gave no sign that he was perturbed by the other man's appearance, but I could not help but feel a mixture of annoyance and apprehension.

"Isolde, would you like me to accompany you back to your room?" he snapped forcefully, sending the tall Sarmatian a disparaging glance.

"No, it is fine, Mordred," I declined as evenly as I could muster when irritated by his alcohol-fuelled belligerence. "Tristan is with me now." This obviously was the wrong thing to say if I had desired to allay the tension of the predicament for Mordred sneered unpleasantly and stepped towards the scout threateningly.

"What do you think you're doing?" he hissed, his usually calm eyes blazing ferociously. "Plying her with drink like some common tavern wench so that you can earn her favours?" The insult in his verbal attack struck me like a physical slap, eliciting a raw gasp of anguished pain. Mordred might have teased me openly beforehand, but never had he dared to speak in such abusive terms until now.

"Get lost, boy," Tristan said, sighing as if wearied by the petulant antics of one of Bors' offspring; however, the threat of retribution was implicit in the dangerous undertones and threat in his voice. I knew that he was only resisting initially from restoring Mordred to his rightful place because of my affection and loyalty to Mordred.

Not wishing to see the situation deteriorate further into slander or chaos, I gathered my courage to intervene as I might be able to: "Mordred, please do not say such things, either of Tristan or me. You have no need to become concerned for my sake."

"I was told to protect you, first by my mother who loved you and then by Merlin himself," he spat and I noticed the slur of his speech increasing as he spiralled further into rage. "He casts you aside when it suits him, but won't let you forget that he _owns _your mind and body. I thought you had more sense than this, but you are acting like a mindless whore…" No more abuse was granted liberation from his venomous tongue as Tristan's hand shot around Mordred's neck in the blink of an eye, giving neither of us a moment to react or even consider what had occurred. The scout drew the younger man towards him, tightening his long, elegant fingers around his throat until the drunken Woad prince began to gasp for breath in wide-eyed fear. A knife's silvery blade in Tristan's free hand glinted menacingly in the starlight that had previously seemed so wondrous to me; now, the shadowy luminescence brought a rush of helplessness and danger to me.

"Tristan," I whispered, horrified yet bewitchingly frozen. He paid me no heed, pressing the keen blade to Mordred's white, vulnerable throat to draw a few beads of dark blood onto the blade. I was reminded of the other occasion upon which Tristan had acted so swiftly and with barely restrained violence in my defence against my uncle's co-conspirators. The sole difference this time was that, in spite of the affronts I had suffered tonight, I could not stand by idly whilst two men I cared about, in disparate ways, were locked in such a precarious dance of death. "Tristan!" I repeated, much louder than before and breathed a sigh of blatant relief when the object of my affection relinquished his painful grasp on my friend. Mordred dropped to his knees weakly, clutching his neck that now bore lines of angry bruising – a visible reminder of the need for forbearance when crossing Tristan. Then, when his lungs were replenished with vital air, he hastened away without daring to engage me or his attacker in the slightest for fear of provocation. I closed my eyes and sought to count the breaths that I permitted into my lungs in order to soothe myself. It was all in vain and possibly the high emotions of the night conflicted within me, rendering me unable to inhibit a steady trickle of tears that broke away from beneath my clenched eyelids.

"Come, what you crying for?" Tristan grumbled gruffly after a moment, his warm accent washing over me like a refreshing wave of the ocean. If I was truly honest, I could not identify the sole reason for my tears, instigated either by Mordred's callous words or Tristan's predatory response. His calloused thumb brushed against my jawline and his proximity accompanied by a sudden descent into relative tenderness did not aid my attempts to regain my composure. In fact, I emitted a wrenching sob once before I could master myself enough to respond to his previous question with a hapless shrug. Why on earth did all the relationships I had crafted wither by chance or with intent have to seem so entirely complicated?


	33. Chapter 33

Here we go, another update! In fact, if all goes according to plan, there are only two more chapters to write and post after this before Tristan and Isolde's saga is complete. I am actually quite excited to be near the conclusion as I do not think it will benefit the story to drag it out any further. Tristan's part in this chapter is modest, but the revelation is important to the final plot climax and then from here on, I hope to write a fitting finale to their strange love affair, whether good or bad. Enjoy and please review!

**Disclaimer: **I do not own _King Arthur _or any of the characters in the film. This fanfic is written purely for entertainment purposes.

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**Chapter 33**

**Courtly Machinations **

The king and queen's marriage was evidently blossoming since they presented a wholly united front in the incessant diplomatic and trade negotiations that took place in the passing days and then weeks. There was little indication of revolt in the atmosphere as confidence in the couple's abilities continued to flourish, but the drastic, rapid changes had brought about some dissent. I had learnt from Galahad that Arthur had discovered the dispute that Mordred and Tristan had engaged in for my sake and had urged them both to lay aside the differences – he could not tolerate dissension between a Woad and Sarmatian within his own closest circle. Guinevere, rather wisely in my opinion, had encouraged Mordred to travel north to his tribe's homeland to restore his status as rightful heir to the seat of power and bear news of Arthur's intentions. I am sorry to say that I wept the night he departed with a small party of fellow Woads, without even a curt farewell or regretful glance. The obstinacy that often profited him whilst on the hunt or remorse for his drunken actions prevented him from healing the wounds that I would now always bear on his behalf.

Not long afterwards, I decided to move out of my temporary accommodation into a modest room in the town that I had located with the able assistance of Vanora. Her bartering skills and canny tongue were instrumental in allowing me to take this small step into independence, using only the modest stipend I had diligently earned from caring for the wounded after the battle against the Saxon invaders. Initially the knights professed their reluctance at my departure from their quarters and I too keenly felt a wistful pang of loneliness with merely the aloof widowed proprietor of the house in which I now dwelt; however, since I was not strictly part of Arthur's court of knights and advisors, I struggled to justify my sustained presence there at the humble political heart of the country. The Sarmatians had generally adapted admirably to their new roles, despite the occasional glitch, such as Galahad's and Bors' tendencies to lose their fiery tempers whenever discussions lingered too long upon a contentious issue. Tristan, I gathered from Vanora's eager gossip when we met for a drink of herb tea, took pains to largely avoid this sort of situation by riding out on scouting missions on an almost daily basis now that his injuries had fully healed. I regret to admit that if I woke early in the morning I would linger by my window in the sentimental hope of seeing him trot by on his magnificent dappled grey mount and his curved bow and sword reinstated to their due positions on his person. This embarrassing practice had been exacerbated by the fact that we had barely conversed since the night of the royal couple's wedding, since he had so ferociously defended my honour against my friend. Although I knew that they were genuinely concerned about plots to stop the kingdom in its tender infancy, I struggled to shift preconceptions that he was actively avoiding me out of my mind. After all, why should he act in such a manner and why indeed did I expect that he should pay a visit to me as often as I fancied?

* * *

I was spending an idle afternoon in my precious diminutive bedroom that overlooked the main street of the town and merely contemplating my limited options for the future that lay uncertainly at my feet. From my post resting lazily against the cool, damp wood of the sill, I spied Vanora making her way towards the house with her growing baby cuddled tightly against her hip in an expertly maternal fashion. A boisterous gaggle of a selection of her older children bustled behind her, laughing and pushing each other haphazardly to and fro across the street. I winced at the unpleasant prospect of my severe, elderly landlady being disturbed by the rowdy family group and so hastened downstairs, improperly lifting the skirt of my dress for speed in order to meet my friend at the door first. I do not believe the woman, who was proud rather than deliberately unfair, had forgiven Vanora for the stubborn strategy she had rigidly adopted in order to negotiate in my favour, but I had no lower her estimation of me personally.

I surprised the red-head as I swung the front door ajar before she had the chance to knock on it, but it seemed that she could scarcely wait to inform me of some tidings when she scattered her young children out of earshot. "How are you doin' here?" she asked warmly, surveying the façade and the view down the hallway behind me.

"It is adequate," I replied candidly for I had no requirement for anything more than a bed and a little space in which I could safely keep my possessions. Her face fell slightly at my distinct lack of enthusiasm and so I rallied myself to reassure her of my contentment, "Oh no, it is perfectly suited to me! While I do not believe that the lady who owns this house will ever be an undyingly loyal friend of mine, she is courteous and respects my privacy and situation in life. I do not forget that I am most fortunate that you have been generous enough to help me find such lodgings."

"I wish I could have offered you somewhere to live at my place, but with all Bors' bastard kids…" she said with a loving half-smile at the distracted infant in her arms and a powerless shrug. I was duly comforted by the knowledge that she actually meant her words. "Now, Isolde, I came here to let you in on some exciting news that Bors came home and blabbed about last night," she told me with a familiar brightness in her vivid eyes. I glanced furtively behind me to ensure that we were completely alone and thus we could not be held utterly responsible for any rumours that might disperse throughout the fort in the coming days. "Arthur and Merlin plan to move the court to this place further south called Camelot. I can't wait for the move personally; I've always wondered if they might have less dreary weather there!" I did not share her delight in the slightest for I was not considered part of the court and the new king had little time or attention to spare for an acquaintance, let alone a former maid at the keep. A nagging worry struck me to the very core that if they left, I might be left truly alone here – a relic of the old days, bereft of all friendship but the memories of it. I could hardly blame Vanora for not detecting my anxiety directly due to her almost juvenile buoyant anticipation of it.

"Let me know if the sun shines more at Camelot then," I jested with a hollow smile, trying to swallow the sudden, uncomfortable lump at the back of my throat.

She frowned and cocked her head, regarding me with a furrowed brow. "What d'you mean? Won't you want to come to Camelot?"

It was not that I did not wish with all my heart to dwell there with my dearest friends and I longed to tell her this truth. "It's not that," I began with difficulty, fumbling to explain myself without letting her guess my inner insecurities. "I intend to set up a shop or healer's business here and help all those I can. I expect Arthur's going to be taking a whole entourage of staff and healers now and so I should remain where I might be most needed." It was a plan that I had mentally toyed with and it would indeed make sense for me to financially support myself with the valuable skills that Morgan had invested so painstakingly in me. One thing was for certain: no one would pay any heed to yet another follower of the king as he made his way to the new seat of power and all would undoubtedly profess to serve him with whatever talents they possessed.

"This is about Tristan, isn't it?" Vanora cut in impatiently, setting her unburdened hand on her hip. I must have appeared overtly morose at being discovered so easily for she instantly softened and assured me sadly, "He'll come round, my dear." How could she be so sure with regards to such an unpredictable, wild man? Accurately reading my scepticism, she explained further, taking one of my limp hands in her own, "He doesn't have a clue how to treat you or express himself, but he can't keep away, even after all these months. I can't say when, but someday he'll realise, if you care enough to wait for him."

We parted company in subdued spirits and I retired glumly back to the sanctity of my chamber, more uncertain than ever. I could not help but listen to the insistent voice of reason for once that informed me that it would be better if I advanced with my life instead of hankering pitifully after a phantom lover. The 'someday' that Vanora had alluded to seemed as improbable and idealistic as a seamless transition from conquered land to entirely peaceful kingdom.

The following day brought more of the same and I found it hard to muster the energy to rouse myself from the confines of bed in the morning. A breath of bracing fresh air and the treat of fresh fruit from the market came to mind as the ideal solution to my apathy and lack of direction, or at least could be the very humble start of a resolution to my woes, I relented. I took longer than I was usually accustomed to in order to neaten and tie my hair into a respectable bun that rested at the nape of my neck. The sight of my reflection in the basin of water at the foot of my bed made me blink in surprise for I appeared weary, a little thinner around the cheeks and even resembled a young matron due to the sombre way in which I had prepared myself this morning. In dismay, I frowned and then, childishly lightened by the exaggerated contortions of my countenance in the water, continued to draw my features into extravagant expressions that flickered between feigned joy, anger, shock and sorrow. The ingenuous pursuit helped to restore a little more of my native innocence and youth to my visage, but I noticed with a flash of self-annoyance that the expression of sadness had encroached with greater facility than any other.

I left the house as quietly as possible, futilely hoping that I would not be found out as being someone prone to sloth and sleeping in until the sun rose to its brilliant zenith each and every day. The pungent smells and distinctive sounds of the ever growing marketplace helped me to navigate my way around the streets of my new neighbourhood and I was pleased to fall in with the bustling anonymity of the crowd of bargain seekers and vendors selling their motley wares. As I hungrily scoured the decorative, engaging stalls that lined the square, I felt at odds with the lively scene and wished heartily that I had not involuntarily assumed the guise of a sour widow or haughty spinster since the eyes of those who passed me by glanced ever so briefly at my body and pale face, but to me seemed to look straight through me. Was I to be as invisible and unremarkable to my friends as this when they had left for Camelot?

Shaking my head harshly to rid it of my overly paranoid contemplations, I approached the laden stall of a popular fruit vendor who was happily dispensing his wares to the astute housewives and hungry men seeking a quick snack. I waited patiently, admiring the brightly coloured, shiny flesh of the fruit before I purchased a single shapely green pear for a single coin. Without further ado, I started to eat it as I wandered further through the market on the lookout for interesting products. I always enjoyed appreciating the foreign wares that had been imported from across the Roman Empire, but now, after its collapse, I intended to find out whether any of these particular tradesmen had lingered in Britain, let alone at this exposed outpost of Badon Hill. Perhaps if any remained here, they would all travel south to try their luck at Camelot's fine and regal court, I told myself darkly as I swallowed the last bite of my breakfast fruit.

My search was eliciting little notable success and I had broadly understood from the knights' previous discussions with me that the vast majority of trading opportunities with the mainland had been forfeited when the Romans had fled homewards with their richly adorned tails between their legs. This was not a factor that caused the Sarmatians to lose much sleep at night of course, but for the rest of us, there were minor disadvantages to the loss of the old regime, but these were not so severe to make us regret the new found freedom. The country would have to rely on whatever its own people could produce and from the existence of such a lively, extensive marketplace, I had to admit that there was a not inconsiderable quantity or range of goods on sale.

An animated, shrill whisper from a pair of women who were walking just ahead of me brought a rueful smile to my face due to the fact that their mutterings carried above the noise of the crowd even when they were obviously trying to be inconspicuous. The subject of their fixated attention removed the good humour from my expression in an instant as Vanora's words revolved hauntingly in my mind. The four Sarmatians convened loosely around a market stall of a nature that I could not identify because their sizeable frames blocked its goods largely from sight. They were engaged in a discussion and the conversation was clearly not to Tristan's liking for he bore a faint scowl as if he was suffering merely from having to listen to his comrades' inane comments. Bors was turning over and closely examining some of the items for sale and was being watched with hawk-like intensity by the nervous vendor, no doubt intimidated by the unanimous presence of the famed knights.

I stopped behind the two young ladies who were admiring the strong men before them and was about to turn to leave when Galahad caught sight of me. "Hey, Isolde!" he called brightly with an especially cheeky grin that boded quite ill. I hesitantly halted my retreat and gave a retrained wave in greeting all four of them. Tristan's gaze snapped towards me with startling alacrity even for him and I was disappointed to see that he was so profoundly perturbed by my arrival. It would have been better if I was able to sneak off alone.

"Tristan, didn't you have something to…" started Gawain with a mirroring mischievous smirk on his lips and I realised the cause for Tristan's dark glower that had graced his striking features even before I had been spotted. He was victim to their jibes for today and by reasoned guesswork, I could wager that Bors would not be any relief to the scout.

"Silence!" snarled Tristan harshly, interjecting Gawain with a fearsome intensity. The stall holder literally leapt backwards in shock and I was left speechless as my friends when Tristan stalked off without a backward glance, deserting the whole lot of us on an impulse.

I waved away Gawain's mumbled apologies on Tristan's behalf and his own for irritating the man (but, of course, he instructed me not to let the scout learn that he was sorry). The sole question in my mind that I did not dare ask for fear of disliking its answer was what Gawain had been referring to. If Tristan had something to tell or show me, I could not think of any impediment to this simple action barring the scout's own reluctance to take much notice of me any longer.


	34. Chapter 34

Here is the penultimate chapter in Tristan and Isolde's saga in which Isolde finally learns how to stand up for herself, but does it work to her advantage after all? I hope you enjoy it and if all goes well, I should be able to post the final chapter of Those Left Behind in about a week. This chapter is short, Tristan-centric and perhaps not quite so sweet!

Thanks to everyone who has read, commented on or otherwise acknowledged my story – it is very encouraging as a writer! I would love to hear what you think so please read and review.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own _King Arthur _or any of the characters from the film. This is written for entertainment purposes only.

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**Chapter 34**

**The Final Ultimatum**

Vanora's privileged early information that Arthur intended to move to a new, more central and imposing stronghold soon proved to be correct. The announcement was apparently made to the populace at large in the market square and my landlady passed on the tidings to me with a sense of interest that I had not imagined she would be able to muster in her seemingly perpetual state of reserved propriety. I had to admit to being a little hurt that none of the knights had themselves revealed the plans to me, but I supposed that they were generally very busy these days , especially since I personally had temporarily assumed the role of a hermit in order to prepare for my own future and rationalise my contemplations. I had grown to realise that supporting myself so that I could live financially independent would be more difficult than I had reckoned; previously, I had either been granted a position by Arthur or had arrived at the opportune moment when anyone possessing healing skills was sorely needed. Life for a woman like me in peacetime might not be so fortuitous, but still I dared not go to Arthur to request employment or assistance. Both my pride and my fear of becoming a burden upon others negated any such ideas. My coin would last me a little while longer if I spent it thriftily and then I would have to replenish my purse, possibly by seeking work as a healer in the vicinity despite the presence of the more experience local medicine man who cured the people's ailments. These pragmatic concerns were a blessing in the sense that they distracted my fickle mind from any gloomy thoughts about Tristan's avoidance or anger at me. Perhaps I was finally developing the thick skin that Morgan had always told me I ought to and that Vanora herself had evidently obtained in abundance.

My relative inertia was starting to severely bother me and so I strove to find menial tasks with which to occupy myself during the day, reminding me of my time as a maid for the Sarmatian cavalry – a period of my life that I now regarded in retrospect with a great deal of fondness and a wistful smile. My room was maintained primly in regimented order, the floorboards had shed the layer of grime that had remained cemented there for quite some time and my few garments were washed with a zeal and force that eradicated any sign of stains attained during my domestic efforts. Despite always retiring to bed in the evenings with a weary sigh and aching back, sleep often eluded me, leaving me more downtrodden in outlook than before and certainly not helping to bring the vitality back into my eyes and pale complexion. I understood clearly that this sleeplessness could not be attributed solely to nervousness about my future financial security, but had a more immediate concern that was particularly exacerbated by the thoroughfare of courtly preparations that I could both see and hear passing beneath my window daily. I could not escape the fact that all too soon I would be alone and parted from my friends once more, without Mordred even to help me come to terms with the royal household's departure.

At the onset of another fresh, rosy dawn at Hadrian's Wall, I rose with the sun and tried my best to cast aside the fatigue that urged my heavy limbs and bleary eyes back into the comfort of my bed. Truth be told, I had come to love the peace of this early hour of the morning when there were thankfully few men and women pounding the cobbled or rutted streets of the settlement and the sounds of nature took precedence over the grating uproar of man. Standing at the window in order to sample the cool air from outside the house, I slowly began to disentangle my long dark hair, accompanied by winces of discomfort whenever I encountered an especially stubborn knot. When I was largely satisfied with this aspect of my monotonous routine, I picked over my two everyday dresses, but was irked to find that neither of them was entirely spotless in accordance with the standards to which I had recently resolved to aspire. After a fleeting glance outside to check that the streets were still deserted, I slipped on my long cloak over my night shift and, bundling my dresses up into my arms, I padded to the door barefoot. I peered cautiously around the door and then slipped around the side of the quaint building to where the owner of the house stored her laundry equipment. Sure enough I found the rough bristled brush and sizeable wooden bucket brimming with water that she had set aside for the day's cleaning only yesterday. Kneeling down on the damp grassy earth, I began to scrub the clothes firmly thoroughly, but with my mind wandering absently through the distant reaches of my consciousness. The iciness of the chilled water rapidly drew my attention back to the task at hand when I plunged the garments into it. My hands had turned an unpleasant shade of deep pink and bore the characteristically wrinkled skin of a laundry day, but were reminiscent of the leathery hide of an elderly woman. I shuddered vainly and tried to dispel the possibility of living a solitary life until my hands adopted this semblance permanently due to the raptures of inescapable age. As I did so, it dawned on me suddenly and with fervour that I would much rather turn my hands to the worthwhile pursuit of healing than wither away, pining for what might have been. The future beckoned inexorably and I only had to decide in which manner I would face its challenges.

Then, over the lulling distant birdsong, I heard the rhythmic clipping of a horse's hooves reaching a gradual crescendo as it approached down the fort's principle causeway. I shot a glance over my shoulder to ensure that I was at least partially concealed from direct view due to my indecorous state of dress and thankfully the proximity of the neighbouring dwelling offered some protection from curious gazes. I allowed the dress to slip slackly into the container of water as I realised that the horse had halted its passage in front of the house and frowned apprehensively. I hoped that this occurrence was merely a chance coincidence, but could not help but fear that either someone had seen me at work. Alternatively, it could just be one of Arthur's men who had been ferrying messages and supplies to other settlements or preparing the way to Camelot in anticipation of the new court of Britain. Taking full advantage of my unshod feet, I crept silently around to peer around the corner of the building so that I could catch a glimpse of the rider and guess the person's intentions.

My heart that had previously been racing in anxiety did not cease its furious rhythm even when I learnt that the rider posed no imminent threat to my safety or honour. The dappled grey steed was recognisable enough to me, but the sight of Tristan in all his scouting and warrior ensemble, silhouetted against the rich rosy glow of the sunrise sent a thrill right through my body. His hands were cradling the reins loosely, maintaining an expert control of his loyal horse, but his handsome face was tilted upwards with slight shadows present beneath his prominent cheekbones. The scout's posture was poised and he remained as still as a marble statue in the saddle with only his face moving as he scanned the façade.

Without fully formulating or understanding my own intentions, I stepped out into the street and addressed him in a soft voice so as not to rouse those who still slumbered peacefully, "You have been avoiding me." The accusation tumbled from my lips unconsciously and for once I had caught the eagle-eyed scout unawares, but this afforded me no great pleasure or delight. He turned his mount so that he faced me head on and for a few moments we merely regarded each other, respectively submerged in our own personal contemplations. I wondered if he would dare deny my statement or offer some form of explanation. As for him, he paused and then swung down from the saddle as if sensing my natural discomfort at the unnatural height disparity between us that was exaggerated by his mounted position. My eyes never left his form and I defensively folded my arms across my body, unwittingly mirroring Vanora's distinctive stance that she adopted in moments of ire directed against her lover.

Still Tristan did not say anything to me and Vanora's assurances that Tristan would one day realise that he felt something for me echoed eerily in my mind. Had he come to my lodgings to tell me what Gawain had alluded to that day in the marketplace if that was an assertion of his feelings for me? How could he truly refrain from this if that was indeed the case because he had always gotten what he had sought from me. I was hardly an unwilling party when it came to our unconventional relationship and yet all that remained to me from it was the cold memory of the passionate touch of his bowed lips and sometimes, when I could not stave it off, the cutting recollection of his cruel rejection.

"I'm going scouting," he told me heavily at last as if I had pressed him for this answer. His irrelevant response to my accusation wounded me unsuspectingly and I stiffened as if to brace myself against the perceived affront. Mordred's insult that I was solely a plaything in one of Tristan's subtle games rose to the forefront of my mind in anger and I recognised the truth in his uninhibited words in a fleeting moment of dawning realisation. I refused to acknowledge his flippancy any longer.

"I do not understand at all what you mean by the way in which you treat me, Tristan," I attacked, inwardly ashamed to hear the tremor that afflicted my voice and betrayed my true emotion. "What do you want from me?" He frowned and cocked his head on one side, no doubt confused by my sudden vehemence after he had become accustomed to my quiet acceptance of his fleeting whims.

"What's wrong, Isolde?" he questioned intently, stepping appealingly towards me with a steadying hand looped into the reins of his obedient charger. His concern appeared genuine and this shook my confidence violently. I clenched my eyes shut tightly, willing myself to remain strong, but at the familiar touch of his hand on my face again, I jolted back into reality and quickly removed myself from his reach.

"You cannot play this game anymore. I would like you to leave now," I retorted shakily, the volume rising and falling uncertainly as my conflicting thoughts. Tristan's entire body went taut like I had physically struck him and the hand which he had gently extended towards me fell loosely by his side. He seemed visibly and openly hurt by my gesture of defiance, but how could I trust this display of rare emotion when his default state resembled indifference at its best and callousness when it suited him? Our gazes stayed locked together for what felt like minutes to me and he made no move to leave my presence, perhaps willing me to change my decision.

Finally, he broke away and smoothly mounted his horse. Before he began to ride away on his scouting mission, his eyes noticeably swept over me from head to toes with my tousled hair and improper attire that clothed my slim frame. I shivered under the scrutiny, but it was not the unpleasant sensation that one might experience in the local tavern by any means. "I should not have come. I am sorry," he murmured eventually and then whipped around without further ado to beat a hasty departure. The apology was sufficient to break my heart all over again and on unsteady legs, I numbly returned to the washing that I had laid aside with abandon in order to confront my former lover. There was a strangely empty feeling that washed over me from the pit of my stomach that seemed akin to what one might undergo when faced with a fearful, dreadful situation.

I had certainly stood up for my rights and dignity in the matter, but at the detriment of my heart's innermost and most lingering desires. As I renewed my efforts to clean my shoddy dresses, I tried to assure myself that I had acted for the very best with admirable good sense and pride. I should not allow myself to be the victim of a captivating man's caprices least I lose myself entirely for the second time and ultimately, we would soon have to take leave of each other when Tristan accompanied his commander south for a new life. I had delivered my ultimatum and an ample opportunity for him to reveal any romantic or even amicable intentions towards me, yet he had revealed nothing to me. I was finally free of him, but tears cascaded liberally down my cheeks and mingled with the copious clear water below.


	35. Chapter 35

Thanks for the feedback and alerts etc. and as always, I am very grateful. Here is the final chapter that I have planned for this story! I hope you like the way it ends as I spent a lot of time thinking about the right way to round off the romance of Tristan and Isolde. In particular, I hope the metaphorical aspect of Camelot for Isolde is clear enough at the conclusions of the chapter, but if not, let me know and I can explain or change it.  
On another note, although this is the final chapter according to my original plan, if you believe that an epilogue would be appropriate, then just let me know and I am sure I can more explicitly describe their future!

This chapter is dedicated to all of my wonderful readers and fantastic reviewers, who have encouraged me to keep writing in such a special way! Please read and review!

**Disclaimer: **I do not own _King Arthur _or any of the characters from the film. This is written purely for entertainment purposes.

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**Chapter 35**

**Where All Roads Lead**

The day had arrived and with it surfaced all the cold dread and melancholy that I had imagined would affect me. Only yesterday, I had received a plaintive invitation to attend the friendly and quite possibly lively dinner with the knights, Arthur, Guinevere and Vanora too. Cowardice provoked me to plead that a headache rendered me incapable of enjoying their company as I should like and so instead I sought solace in the privacy of my room where compassionate eyes would not see my despondency. I had no right to darken the celebrations of my friends because of my concern over our separation. In fact, I had already been pressganged into swearing a solemn oath to pay them a prompt visit after I had alluded to my intentions of setting up shop here at Badon Hill in a recent conversation with Gawain and Galahad. Their vehemence seemed encouragingly genuine, but as we parted ways I had been struck by a sneaking wariness at the sight of the sly, mischievous glance they had shared, accompanied by a knowing roll of the eyes. I readied myself to remain on guard for some form of humorous trick or prank if I ever did decide to accept their offer and frequent the regal hall of Camelot.

Yet this dawn there had been a veritable eruption of diligent activity from all sectors of the fort with well-wishers and members of Arthur's newly formed entourage hastening to finalise preparations for the passage south. Although I had initially resolved not to pay any heed to this uproar in the street below, I was soon drawn to the window from where I could fully appreciate the sights and sounds of the settlement that buzzed with vitality and industry similar to what one might expect if one riled ants in their nest. Formidably armed warriors, originating from both sides of the great Wall, strode proudly down towards the gates, often followed closely by frantic traders attempting to flatter them into purchasing some product or other for their important journey. Numerous carts laden with supplies of all sorts imaginable trundled past, drawing nosey stares from passers-by who wished to know the intimate details of the King's household. It was uncanny for someone like me, who knew Arthur from before the Saxon invasion to contemplate how he had risen meteorically from a humble provincial cavalry commander to the revered high king of a nation without any great time interval between the two disparate statuses.

The more I thought about my friends and even the political and military challenges that would confront them in their dramatically altered lives, the more I realised that I could not lounge idly in my chamber without even wishing them well on their journey. It would be doing them all a great and unforgivable disservice. Surely I was not so utterly weak of character that I would be incapable of withholding my tears for the short time required to earnestly bid them luck and affection, I berated myself severely.

* * *

I was lost in the crowd – a curiously empowering sentiment of anonymity washed over me, but it would not serve my purpose today. Ignoring the looks of disgust and indignation that my fellow well-wishers sent my way, I edged my way through the stubborn figures towards the royal party who were already waiting next to their horses. I had not chosen my moment to have a sudden change of heart a minute too soon thankfully. Once I had emerged onto the road and ducked apologetically around a huddle of blue-hued Woad guards, I slowly approached Arthur, Guinevere and the four Sarmatians, who were conversing freely and obviously in good spirits.

"Isolde, my dear," cried Bors with startling volume and a warm grin. "Thought you'd never make it out of bed in time to see us on our way!" I blushed slightly at the implication of my idleness, but smiled nonetheless at the group in general, always avoiding directly staring in Tristan's path.

"How could I not? Good luck on your journey," I managed with credible brightness of tone before I was forced to stop to swallow the developing lump at the back of my throat.

"May we have a word, Isolde?" Arthur requested seriously and led me a few paces away by the elbow alongside his lovely young wife. "Forgive me for not coming to visit you at your new home; it was most remiss of me." Was this still a matter of concern to the King of the Britons?

"Arthur, I did not expect it of you," I replied truthfully, engaging his wide green eyes in placation for I would not wish him to leave with any remnants of guilt on my behalf. His posture softened almost imperceptibly, but it appeared that there was more that the pair wanted to discuss with me.

"I was sorry to learn that you do not intend to move to Camelot with us. Is there anything that would alter your resolve in this matter? I sincerely hope there is something we can do to convince you," he assured me softly and I was overcome by the sense of kinship with the man that brought a glazing of bright tears to my grey orbs. Unable to speak immediately, I glanced down at the muddy rutted road at our feet and shook my head sadly, willing him inwardly to understand my reasons for remaining here despite the personal cost.

Guinevere laid a gentle hand on my arm and spoke up to reinforce her husband's sentiments with touching compassion and candidness, "Know that you shall always be welcomed with open arms at Camelot." Camelot: a place name that had swiftly acquired an almost holy veneration, but was currently synonymous with isolation and regret in my own opinion. I murmured my most heartfelt gratitude and turned to leave them since the very last of the carts had now been fully loaded by the willing assistants, enthused by the tangible excitement in the atmosphere.

Upon a whim, I decided to make my way to the top of the fort's wall so that I would be afforded the optimal view of the departing train of people and necessities as they headed southwards. This also allowed me to pass the carriage in which the whole of Bors' family was going to travel on the passage to Camelot with Vanora attempting to keep all eleven children firmly in line. The wizened man who was driving the horses that pulled the peculiar passengers along already seemed a little resentful of his lot and sent me a look that was both pitiful and exasperated at the same time. This at least brought a little smile to my face during these sad farewells.

"Goodbye Vanora," I called over the incessant din that permeated the canvas canopy of the brimming carriage. Instantly, she gently handed over her youngest baby to an elder daughter and stepped down to meet my fond embrace. I would miss the easy chats that we had shared so regularly, but I was undeniably happy that she who deserved so much from the world was finally setting out on a fulfilling new chapter in her life. Before we could exchange any last words of farewell a petty albeit piercingly loud argument broke out from amongst her brood of offspring and with a tearful smile I retreated to permit her to deal with them as only a natural mother could.

It took me several more minutes to weave my path up onto the wall and walk further along until I had space and peace enough to hear my own thoughts properly at last. A disadvantage of that situation was that I succumbed to the remorseless tears that coursed like scorching fire down my cheeks. It was a raw, self-pitying form of grief and sobs caught harshly in my throat whenever my friends' faces surfaced in my mind's eye. Most of all and without a moment's hesitation, I wept most wretchedly for the loss of Tristan whom I had not even dared to show my face to today despite the overwhelming emotions I still harboured for him.

Below me, the fort's gates were pulled open and as the entourage mounted their impressive horses, a series of wild cheers emanated from the audience whose joy for their idolised sovereigns was unfettered by the sorrow of losing close contact with loved ones. I did, however, bring myself to my senses sufficiently to wipe my tears away impatiently with the edge of my dress sleeve if only so that I might have a clearer view of the majestic scene that would soon unfold. I had learnt from the overheard gossip on the streets that the King and Queen would depart last of all in order to bid farewell to their people, granting the slower carriages and carts for supplies to gain a slight lead.

Indeed as I turned to look inwards over the more interesting scene unfolding within the walls, I caught sight of the first vehicles being drawn by horses striking out on the long, straight road alongside a safe number of armed guards for the vulnerable convoy. They certainly would not be able to escape any enemy attentions through stealth alone if Vanora's children had their own way and so I was reassured by the sight of the mounted warriors who would lay down their lives for the innocent. Guinevere and Arthur were inching along the lines of their subjects, addressing them with ready smiles and lacking any vestiges of the superiority that one might expect of royalty or power – a factor that elevated them immensely in the opinions of the onlookers without question.

I sighed heavily and swept a loose tress away from my visage that had previously been obscuring my vision. Once I had done so, I unleashed sharp gasp at the sight of Tristan standing not more than a couple of paces from my side, regarding me intently through his own unkempt dark hair. Perhaps I was so startled by his unexpected arrival that I had been so fervently wishing for deep within in me that caused me to lurch backwards and seize hold of the cool stones of the wall for support. My reaction seemed to affect him for his bearing softened slightly as if he was dispirited by my shaken response to his presence. My mind virtually froze, all except for the sole distressing thought that he was going to desert me now.

"Wait and listen," he ordered quietly, but his words scarcely registered in my consciousness and I began to hasten away from him. His melodic tone lacked its usual authority or else I would still be bound there by invisible chains. Alternatively, it could have been my recent act of defiance that had somewhat loosened his commanding hold over me, but my physical strength was certainly no match for him and so when he snaked out both his hands to prevent my retreat I was unable to leave. "You're not going anywhere till you hear what I have to say, woman," the scout growled as I briefly tried to disengage his iron grip. Returning to my right mind, I ceased to struggle in complete futility since I knew that I would be forced to hear him out even if his economically selected words were not to my liking in the slightest. He relaxed his grasp when he understood that I had settled for compliance with this request of his, but when I unconsciously rubbed the place where he had tightly seized hold of my forearms, I saw his gaze flicker downwards and a fleeting frown of regret contort his fine features.

"I thought that you had to depart with Arthur now," I uttered numbly, more for want of some phrase to speak than a genuine reminder of his duty to his king and comrade. He shrugged nonchalantly, casting a careless glance at the milling entourage below us; I supposed that they could function perfectly well without Tristan's presence and expertise for a little while.

"I do, but first…" he began again before appearing to falter in his train of thought momentarily in a manner that I had never witnessed from him before. "Look, I'm no good with words, but I made some mistakes," he continued with a wince and I am sure that my mouth fell ajar at the thought of the cost to him of admitting such an aberrant error of judgement. He shifted his weight uncomfortably as if he was a caged wild beast undergoing some traumatic taming exercise. "What I mean is that…" once again he broke off in mid-sentence with a sigh of exasperation, but this time instead of attempting to persist in this evidently discomforting preoccupation, he acted decisively and elegantly as only he knew how to: sweeping me into a firm, enveloping embrace, he engaged my lips in a passionate yet undemanding kiss. Strategically, it was an unequivocal victory and when I had recovered from my shock, I returned the kiss wholeheartedly. The mutual underlying sentiments and meaning in that one charged kiss made my heart soar within my chest – it made my world perfect in that instant.

"I love you, Tristan," I whispered into his shoulder once we had parted breathlessly, feeling utterly blissful. I inhaled deeply, revelling in the woody, individual scent on his soft leather tunic. After a few more moments, he stepped back a pace to look me in the eye, but I was glad that he made no move to remove his arms from around me.

"So you'll come then?" he questioned and the invitation broadened the already beaming smile that was resolutely affixed to my radiant countenance. "As my wife?" Whilst the first query had only heightened my sense of effusive happiness, the second that followed after a laden pause forcefully struck me dumb and mute. I wondered fearfully if this entire situation had been a figment of my wildest dreams and that I was even now slumbering peacefully in my lonely lodgings.

However, a flash of plain uncertainty passed briefly over my lover's face too and his arms dropped slackly from around my body, leaving me suddenly cold and alone. It was time to respond in kind: with an uninhibited cry of pleasure, I flung my arms around his neck and pressed my lips to his for a second time. I did not doubt that he would misunderstand that simple, wordless affirmative reaction. I never wanted the idyllic moment to end.

"Hurry up, won't you," boomed Bors impatiently from his mounted position several feet below us, startling nearby members of the crowd. His perceptible glee penetrated the callousness of his words and I could clearly picture the likely delighted expression on his round, seasoned face. He would definitely enjoy informing his lover of Tristan's successful venture today. We both silently decided to ignore our friend and carried on kissing, right there on the apex of the fort's almighty walls.

"Yeah, you're keeping royalty waiting here," jested Gawain and I could not help but laugh more openly than I had in quite some time. Observing the scene in the road, I was mildly abashed to see that Tristan and I had drawn a great deal of attention from the hordes who had gathered there – a remarkable feat when in the presence of Arthur and Guinevere, I thought to myself with private mirth.

We would both come and follow the road to Camelot, which was no longer such a dark, forbidding place to me, but a true symbol of contentment, both for the nation and for myself. After all, it seemed all roads lead to Camelot, both in reality and in metaphor.


End file.
